I am not sure when this episode happened but it would have been sometime in the years 1984-1986. It was perhaps summertime and we had spent some time at Grandma and Grandpa’s house. Leaving to go home was hard on us all. It was especially hard on the children who had enjoyed all the spoiling and the lavish love.
As was usual, we had slowly loaded up our 1979 Chevrolet van and were putting the finishing touches on the house search for lost or forgotten items. (There was always a large spread of such things.) It was almost down to the last moments for our departure and Miss Rebecca had been belted into her car seat. The first victim for removal was thus secured. It was a sunny and hot day and Grandpa was out at the van, shielding Becca from the Sun’s direct rays by standing next to the open sliding van door.
Becca was crying and sad to leave and in response to some soothing pleasantry from Grandpa, blurted out in misdirected anger, “I hate you!” That really tickled his funny bone, and for years afterwards he related the story to us of how Beckster J. Weckster hated him. Of course the polar opposite was too true and it was probably not half a mile down the road after we left Ronnie Way that she was asking for him and wanting to return.
Return we did, many, many times to the “hated” Grandpa and Grandma’s house. Love with a capital “L” was always present there and I do not think that Becca was ever so misguided as to “hate” Grandpa again.
JP 12-31-2011
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Lake Bonaparte Saga
In the Summer of 1994, I was able to teach summer school at Wilson, doing a special Drama class. Unfortunately, I missed out on a great week of “vacation” that Kate and Becca spent at Lake Bonaparte in northern Washington. Dan was attending a Boy Scout leadership training at BSA Camp Bonapart and the “girls” were encamped at a public campground on the shore of the lake. After driving up with everyone and depositing Dan at camp and Becca and Kate at the campground, I was able to spend one night with them and then had to drive back to Yakima to work.
The week we were apart was very hard on Becca. She says that she felt vulnerable without the “lumberjack protector.” Every day seemed so long and the nights were a bit scary. Luckily, Kate was resourceful and made up tons of activities to keep Becca occupied. They went on walks and rowed on the lake in the boat loaned providentially by the kindly campground hosts. They did crafty nature projects and out of desperation Kate frantically made up a daily calendar of events, complete with illustrations and things to do so Becca could count down the days until her Pop and brother were back.
Salvation came at week’s end with the return of the lumberjack and the weathered boy scout. I think Kate breathed a sigh of relief that her fledgling stint at solo entertainer and protector was over. Dan had picked up a Lake Bonaparte T shirt for Becca and they looked cute as twins. The extra day we spent before returning home was filled with his expounding on the woods lore that he had learned and the little (almost complete) family unit was happy once more.
JP 12-31-2011
The week we were apart was very hard on Becca. She says that she felt vulnerable without the “lumberjack protector.” Every day seemed so long and the nights were a bit scary. Luckily, Kate was resourceful and made up tons of activities to keep Becca occupied. They went on walks and rowed on the lake in the boat loaned providentially by the kindly campground hosts. They did crafty nature projects and out of desperation Kate frantically made up a daily calendar of events, complete with illustrations and things to do so Becca could count down the days until her Pop and brother were back.
Salvation came at week’s end with the return of the lumberjack and the weathered boy scout. I think Kate breathed a sigh of relief that her fledgling stint at solo entertainer and protector was over. Dan had picked up a Lake Bonaparte T shirt for Becca and they looked cute as twins. The extra day we spent before returning home was filled with his expounding on the woods lore that he had learned and the little (almost complete) family unit was happy once more.
JP 12-31-2011
Pierced Ears Panic
Shortly after moving to Yakima, in 1992, to be exact, Becca got her wish and had her ears pierced for her birthday. At that time she got a set of “beginner earrings” to use while the holes became permanent. They probably were not the most expensive set, no doubt stainless steel or some sort of “knock off” look alike. It has been my observation, and I have been told (since I have not had pierced ears of my own) that at the outset they are hard to put back in after the necessary cleansing with alcohol, soap, etc. Like any good disaster movie, the stage was set for the drama to unfold. Soon one of Becca’s ears became infected. When I saw it finally, the earlobe had swelled and even grown a bit around the earring backing. This made it impossible to remove.
Home attempts proved futile and so we went to our family doctor Jeff Kaplan. He attempted to remove it but Becca was screaming and squirming so much that he gave up on the attempt. The poor child was in such pain, she was almost in hysterics. Something had to be done but what? The situation could not go on without some resolution for Becca’s health.
Dr. Kaplan felt that more of a surgeon’s skill was needed and referred us to a wonderful Ear, Nose and Throat Specialist, Doctor Abbenhaus. He was renowned for his work with children. We went to his office and he saw Becca almost right away. He sat down and was explaining the situation to her and she was listening intently to his words when, suddenly, he showed her the backing, resting in the palm of his hand, which he had removed without her even knowing it. She was amazed as were we all. When the earring was removed and the wound drained, it was packed with antibiotics and Becca wore a bandage over her ear for many days to keep infection away. She looked like a small war-wounded casualty.
I think that Dr, Abbenhaus attained a status next to godliness in our house and in Becca’s eyes. Later, he used a very aggressive treatment of steroids to cure her of Bell’s Palsy. This only served to heighten his divine status. He retired not to long afterwards and I am always grateful that he was there for her, when she needed him.
JP 12-31-2011
Home attempts proved futile and so we went to our family doctor Jeff Kaplan. He attempted to remove it but Becca was screaming and squirming so much that he gave up on the attempt. The poor child was in such pain, she was almost in hysterics. Something had to be done but what? The situation could not go on without some resolution for Becca’s health.
Dr. Kaplan felt that more of a surgeon’s skill was needed and referred us to a wonderful Ear, Nose and Throat Specialist, Doctor Abbenhaus. He was renowned for his work with children. We went to his office and he saw Becca almost right away. He sat down and was explaining the situation to her and she was listening intently to his words when, suddenly, he showed her the backing, resting in the palm of his hand, which he had removed without her even knowing it. She was amazed as were we all. When the earring was removed and the wound drained, it was packed with antibiotics and Becca wore a bandage over her ear for many days to keep infection away. She looked like a small war-wounded casualty.
I think that Dr, Abbenhaus attained a status next to godliness in our house and in Becca’s eyes. Later, he used a very aggressive treatment of steroids to cure her of Bell’s Palsy. This only served to heighten his divine status. He retired not to long afterwards and I am always grateful that he was there for her, when she needed him.
JP 12-31-2011
Iron Mountain Crevasse
One memorable winter in the late 1980’s, we almost lost Becca in the realm of the snow gods and goddesses! It is a traumatic memory for her and one that still brings goose bumps to me. It ranks up there with Dan’s almost drowning on the Consumnes River.
On a family snow outing with a friend of Cece’s accompanying us, we went up Iron Mountain Road out of Pollock Pines and then on to Highway 88. We were trying to find the perfect (cheap) family snow play area and finally thought we had. There was a sizeable mound sloping away from the roadway and it gentled out after a bit to a flat spot…the perfect sliding spot. I am sure that we had saucers but I think that Dan opted to go down on his bottom in slick ski pants. Becca’s turn was next.
Somehow, in stepping to one side of our impromptu ski run, Becca accidentally stepped into a hole by the base of an old pine stump. It was covered with a thin film of snow that easily gave way under her. Down she went into s now cave that was not terribly large but big enough to cover her slight form, out of sight. Her left boot began to slip off and she was scared that it would come off and be lost down the long dark tunnel.
She began to cry and yell for help. Daniel heard her but later said that he thought she was laughing. I finally heard her sobbing pleas for help and after locating the source of her voice, knelt in the snow and reaching down, was able to pull her out, boot and all. I remember holding her in my arms and cuddling her while I helped to put her boot back on. We moved on to another, different spot, away from treacherous snow crevasses, and with some snuggling and consolation from her Mom, the little snow queen was able to return to the day’s fun and antics.
To this day, the memory of that event is burned into her psyche and Becca still recalls the experience with a shudder. Such a seemingly innocent event could have turned out much worse. We all were blessed that it did not.
JP 12-31-2011
On a family snow outing with a friend of Cece’s accompanying us, we went up Iron Mountain Road out of Pollock Pines and then on to Highway 88. We were trying to find the perfect (cheap) family snow play area and finally thought we had. There was a sizeable mound sloping away from the roadway and it gentled out after a bit to a flat spot…the perfect sliding spot. I am sure that we had saucers but I think that Dan opted to go down on his bottom in slick ski pants. Becca’s turn was next.
Somehow, in stepping to one side of our impromptu ski run, Becca accidentally stepped into a hole by the base of an old pine stump. It was covered with a thin film of snow that easily gave way under her. Down she went into s now cave that was not terribly large but big enough to cover her slight form, out of sight. Her left boot began to slip off and she was scared that it would come off and be lost down the long dark tunnel.
She began to cry and yell for help. Daniel heard her but later said that he thought she was laughing. I finally heard her sobbing pleas for help and after locating the source of her voice, knelt in the snow and reaching down, was able to pull her out, boot and all. I remember holding her in my arms and cuddling her while I helped to put her boot back on. We moved on to another, different spot, away from treacherous snow crevasses, and with some snuggling and consolation from her Mom, the little snow queen was able to return to the day’s fun and antics.
To this day, the memory of that event is burned into her psyche and Becca still recalls the experience with a shudder. Such a seemingly innocent event could have turned out much worse. We all were blessed that it did not.
JP 12-31-2011
Saintly Children ?????
When we lived in Davis, California, Cecilia attended St. James Elementary School until she graduated from the Eighth Grade. As with all parochial schools, many religious holidays were graced with student performances at the various services. In 1987, Cece landed one of the plum parts in the Christmas play. She was to be the Archangel Gabriel, the angel that appeared to Mary and told her the news that she would be the mother of God.
If my memory of Catholic school is any yardstick, I am sure that there was much practicing of the play before the Christmas Eve performance at the Childrens’ Mass. That night, the play went flawlessly, at least to the prejudiced eyes of a very proud father. Cece stood behind the manger scene with arms outstretched and overshadowed the crèche with angelic grace. There were other angels in the scene and I forget if they had speaking parts or not. I know that Cece did.
Anyhow, after Christmas and far into the following spring (if photos are any evidence) this play was re-enacted time and again at our house, and seemingly on the front lawn for the entire neighborhood’s edification. Cece and friend, Claire Fontenot (who had been one of the play’s angels) stand with arms outstretched looking over the manger scene. St. Joseph (Dan) and the Virgin Mary (Rebecca) kneel on each side of the crib with hands prayerfully clasped. The crib is Becca’s doll crib that was inherited from Cece. The baby Jesus is no doubt some nondescript doll from the combined sisters’ collection.
The combined effect is extremely holy and prayerful. I am sure the neighborhood of K Street was brought to a more religious frame of mind by the saintly actor and actresses.
JP 12-31-2011
If my memory of Catholic school is any yardstick, I am sure that there was much practicing of the play before the Christmas Eve performance at the Childrens’ Mass. That night, the play went flawlessly, at least to the prejudiced eyes of a very proud father. Cece stood behind the manger scene with arms outstretched and overshadowed the crèche with angelic grace. There were other angels in the scene and I forget if they had speaking parts or not. I know that Cece did.
Anyhow, after Christmas and far into the following spring (if photos are any evidence) this play was re-enacted time and again at our house, and seemingly on the front lawn for the entire neighborhood’s edification. Cece and friend, Claire Fontenot (who had been one of the play’s angels) stand with arms outstretched looking over the manger scene. St. Joseph (Dan) and the Virgin Mary (Rebecca) kneel on each side of the crib with hands prayerfully clasped. The crib is Becca’s doll crib that was inherited from Cece. The baby Jesus is no doubt some nondescript doll from the combined sisters’ collection.
The combined effect is extremely holy and prayerful. I am sure the neighborhood of K Street was brought to a more religious frame of mind by the saintly actor and actresses.
JP 12-31-2011
Friday, December 30, 2011
Slide Rock and Mesa Verde
In the summers of 1987 and 1989, we ventured to the Southwest on a “kid-n-car” trip. As with all our car treks, each was memorable. In 1987 we traveled to the Grand Canyon, then to Flagstaff , camping in Oak Creek Canyon. This natural park area had wonderful southwestern foliage, beautiful Oak Creek and best of all SLIDE ROCK.
This phenomena is just what it says, rock layers worn smooth and into channels by the water action of Oak Creek. This has a significant flow of water and a person can slide down into the troughs and be pushed by the water down a significant set of inclines. It is a blast and we spent days there which the kids thoroughly enjoyed. The adults did too and we all slid down the water chutes yelling and laughing and bumping ourselves royally.
Our next trip, in 1989, was through the Mesa Country seeing the pueblos and driving up through Santa Fe, Taos, through Chama. It sticks in my memory that a mandatory side trip to Slide Rock happened also but this old feeble brain cannot place it in the itinerary. Some of the wonderful experiences were visiting Betatakin, the Pueblo National Monument and Mesa Verde.
The forces of nature made our stay at Mesa Verde memorable. After setting up camp in one of the campgrounds, Dan and I went back in the car to see some ruins, forgotten now. On the return trip, we were caught in a surprise thunder, lightning and hail storm that was so intense you could not see the road to drive. We, and others, took shelter in a roadway tunnel, stopping our cars while the storm lasted. We were concerned about how the girls were doing, to say the least. When we got back to camp, they had amazing tales to tell. The wind had been so strong that it flattened the tent, with them in it! The hail was pounding on the tent and though dry, Kate, Becca and Cece were concerned about us!
Happily reunited, and the storm having passed by, we proceeded to make dinner. Once the food boxes were cracked open, out of nowhere several deer appeared. They were so tame that they came right up to us and were nosing around the food. Cece, in an attempt to keep them away from our greens, held a head of lettuce behind her back and out of sight of a particularly nosey deer that was harassing her. Unbeknownst to her, another deer came up behind and bit the head of lettuce. They were not used to being denied, those government freeloaders!
We ended up driving into Colorado to Crested Butte and Gunnison. I almost interviewed for a job in Gunnison (the secret agenda of this trip…which ended up in our moving to Yakima, Washington). Camping up at Gothic, an old mining area near Crested Butte (Crusted Butt to our giggling kids) in a pouring rainstorm, Dan got very sick and for 24 hours had a terribly high fever. Happily he recovered quickly. We drove back through Utah and Nevada and home to Davis, weary but happy travelers. Those trips are legendary and no doubt more stories about them will surface making it necessary to amend this narrative.
JP 12-30-2011
This phenomena is just what it says, rock layers worn smooth and into channels by the water action of Oak Creek. This has a significant flow of water and a person can slide down into the troughs and be pushed by the water down a significant set of inclines. It is a blast and we spent days there which the kids thoroughly enjoyed. The adults did too and we all slid down the water chutes yelling and laughing and bumping ourselves royally.
Our next trip, in 1989, was through the Mesa Country seeing the pueblos and driving up through Santa Fe, Taos, through Chama. It sticks in my memory that a mandatory side trip to Slide Rock happened also but this old feeble brain cannot place it in the itinerary. Some of the wonderful experiences were visiting Betatakin, the Pueblo National Monument and Mesa Verde.
The forces of nature made our stay at Mesa Verde memorable. After setting up camp in one of the campgrounds, Dan and I went back in the car to see some ruins, forgotten now. On the return trip, we were caught in a surprise thunder, lightning and hail storm that was so intense you could not see the road to drive. We, and others, took shelter in a roadway tunnel, stopping our cars while the storm lasted. We were concerned about how the girls were doing, to say the least. When we got back to camp, they had amazing tales to tell. The wind had been so strong that it flattened the tent, with them in it! The hail was pounding on the tent and though dry, Kate, Becca and Cece were concerned about us!
Happily reunited, and the storm having passed by, we proceeded to make dinner. Once the food boxes were cracked open, out of nowhere several deer appeared. They were so tame that they came right up to us and were nosing around the food. Cece, in an attempt to keep them away from our greens, held a head of lettuce behind her back and out of sight of a particularly nosey deer that was harassing her. Unbeknownst to her, another deer came up behind and bit the head of lettuce. They were not used to being denied, those government freeloaders!
We ended up driving into Colorado to Crested Butte and Gunnison. I almost interviewed for a job in Gunnison (the secret agenda of this trip…which ended up in our moving to Yakima, Washington). Camping up at Gothic, an old mining area near Crested Butte (Crusted Butt to our giggling kids) in a pouring rainstorm, Dan got very sick and for 24 hours had a terribly high fever. Happily he recovered quickly. We drove back through Utah and Nevada and home to Davis, weary but happy travelers. Those trips are legendary and no doubt more stories about them will surface making it necessary to amend this narrative.
JP 12-30-2011
Hailstorm Rescue
The year is unremembered, although it was when Becca was a Senior in High School, I believe. That would make it 1990-1991. On a particularly blustery and wet day, Kate decided to do her daily constitutional walk around the “big block.” This was a four mile circuit of orchards and was very open and picturesque. It had rained earlier but had stopped and the air was clean and crisp and invigorating.
Somehow, I was cajoled into going and Puppy followed us dutifully as we marched off. The first two miles were rather uneventful but we noticed clouds building up to the southwest and they were getting darker and darker. The wind began to pick up and soon spitting rain was pelting the intrepid travelers. This was about the mile three mark.
Suddenly, the heavens were rent with a GIGANTIC peal of thunder and lightning forked across the sky, not all that far away. The very ground reverberated with the concussion! Needless to say we increased our pace dramatically, but to no avail. Totally without warning, as more lightning and thunder forked and crashed, the sky opened up and we were inundated with rain, heavy and hard drops pelting us mercilessly. Laughing at being wet, we foolishly joked that it could not get much wetter. WERE WE WRONG! Immediately following this utterance, the rain changed to hail, BIG HAIL, and it began to almost hurt. I would guess, it was dime sized. We could not see the road being practically blinded by the hail. Poor Puppy was following right at our heels, terrified by the anger of the elements. Kate and I were sogging along, wordlessly, dripping and moaning (me) when salvation came to us.
Emergency response, in the form of Rescuer Rebecca, drove up in her little white Honda and we piled in dripping and squelching. Puppy was so scared she would not jump in the car but had to be lifted in by me. At home, Becca had heard the storm break and had driven all the way around the block following the direction we had taken. She saved the day! Was I ever grateful!
JP 12-30-2011
Somehow, I was cajoled into going and Puppy followed us dutifully as we marched off. The first two miles were rather uneventful but we noticed clouds building up to the southwest and they were getting darker and darker. The wind began to pick up and soon spitting rain was pelting the intrepid travelers. This was about the mile three mark.
Suddenly, the heavens were rent with a GIGANTIC peal of thunder and lightning forked across the sky, not all that far away. The very ground reverberated with the concussion! Needless to say we increased our pace dramatically, but to no avail. Totally without warning, as more lightning and thunder forked and crashed, the sky opened up and we were inundated with rain, heavy and hard drops pelting us mercilessly. Laughing at being wet, we foolishly joked that it could not get much wetter. WERE WE WRONG! Immediately following this utterance, the rain changed to hail, BIG HAIL, and it began to almost hurt. I would guess, it was dime sized. We could not see the road being practically blinded by the hail. Poor Puppy was following right at our heels, terrified by the anger of the elements. Kate and I were sogging along, wordlessly, dripping and moaning (me) when salvation came to us.
Emergency response, in the form of Rescuer Rebecca, drove up in her little white Honda and we piled in dripping and squelching. Puppy was so scared she would not jump in the car but had to be lifted in by me. At home, Becca had heard the storm break and had driven all the way around the block following the direction we had taken. She saved the day! Was I ever grateful!
JP 12-30-2011
Budding Beauticians
Thankfully, there is only one photo that I have ever found to exist that supports this tale. It is not one for general consumption and I pray that it lives its life in the confines of this family alone. Maybe I should put a clause in my will that the picture and the negative are destroyed upon my death.
I am not sure when this travesty began and I am not sure what spawned the interest in Cece’s head. I do remember that she was much smaller than in the photo when the fun of “doing Papa’s hair” began. I also know that Daniel and Rebecca got oodles of joy from assisting. The end results of their handiwork was not something I would display by parading around outside.
Barrettes, scrunchies, hair spray, goo and various odious hair gels were the implements of torture. I would end up looking like a cross between one of the kids on the old comedy, “Our Gang,” and a hung-over punk rocker when they were done. Cece and gang would proudly show their mother the fine results of their handiwork, preening as if they had been awarded a degree in beautician creativity. I am afraid that perhaps Xochitl and Rosa also were involved from time to time and so the legend may have a life of its own.
I believe the expression on my face in the picture says it all. That I was a practice head for Cece’s future expertise in hair arrangement (for which she is justly renowned) is somewhat of a consolation for the hours of pain and laughter (directed at me) that I endured. Fathers will do anything for their daughters!
JP 12-30-2011
I am not sure when this travesty began and I am not sure what spawned the interest in Cece’s head. I do remember that she was much smaller than in the photo when the fun of “doing Papa’s hair” began. I also know that Daniel and Rebecca got oodles of joy from assisting. The end results of their handiwork was not something I would display by parading around outside.
Barrettes, scrunchies, hair spray, goo and various odious hair gels were the implements of torture. I would end up looking like a cross between one of the kids on the old comedy, “Our Gang,” and a hung-over punk rocker when they were done. Cece and gang would proudly show their mother the fine results of their handiwork, preening as if they had been awarded a degree in beautician creativity. I am afraid that perhaps Xochitl and Rosa also were involved from time to time and so the legend may have a life of its own.
I believe the expression on my face in the picture says it all. That I was a practice head for Cece’s future expertise in hair arrangement (for which she is justly renowned) is somewhat of a consolation for the hours of pain and laughter (directed at me) that I endured. Fathers will do anything for their daughters!
JP 12-30-2011
Chickamauga Canine
The year 2004, saw Rebecca’s return to the West Coast after over a year living in Greenville, South Carolina. Her move to and adventures there is the subject for another time but when I flew out to Atlanta, to accompany her driving home, we had many road trip adventures. She graciously allowed me to fulfill a long standing wish to visit Civil War sites in the South. We saw Charleston’s battery and Fort Sumter (from a distance), and then began our trip.
In Georgia we stopped at Kennesaw Mountain, a battlefield where my Great grandfather, William Henry Parrish had fought, as well as the battlefields of Chickamauga and Chattanooga (Missionary Ridge). In Tennessee we stopped at Stone’s River battlefield. At all these spots, Lily, Becca’s canine companion, and still a puppy, romped and stretched her legs. She was the ideal car companion along the whole trip but it was a Chickamauga that she made her memorable run.
We had stopped to see the visitor’s center and then decided to let her play around a bit. Opening the car door, she bolted out like a streak of lightning and romped around on the grassy field where 142 years earlier men had shot at and killed each other, in order to preserve the nation. She was having a ball just running around, in circles, in straight lines, anything, AND THEN SHE SAW THE BIRDS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I have never seen a dog run as fast as Lily did that day. She reached deep into her ancestry and Whippet heritage as well as her hunting South Carolina Dog instincts and ROARED after a huge flock of birds on the grass. She TORE into that flock like a runaway locomotive! I never saw that puppy run as fast ever again…she was a streak on the grass, hugging low to the ground, her little rear paws reaching all the way to in front of her muzzle (I am not exaggerating!), her forepaws slung out WAY in front and then rotating to almost her behind. She held her head low and just grazing the grass. Had she been a bit older and wiser I am sure she would have caught a few of those birds. They never knew what hit them but all rose in a cloud of alarm and wheeled above us making a cacophony of noise.
After a bit, and seeming very proud of herself, she trotted back to us like a victorious general having vanquished an enemy. I am sure that 142 years earlier, Confederate general Braxton Bragg was not half as proud at defeating his Union counterpart Rosecrans. I never saw her run as fast again, as I have said. It was her Olympic effort and will always stick in my memory as one of the most enjoyable parts of that car trip home.
JP 12-30-2011
In Georgia we stopped at Kennesaw Mountain, a battlefield where my Great grandfather, William Henry Parrish had fought, as well as the battlefields of Chickamauga and Chattanooga (Missionary Ridge). In Tennessee we stopped at Stone’s River battlefield. At all these spots, Lily, Becca’s canine companion, and still a puppy, romped and stretched her legs. She was the ideal car companion along the whole trip but it was a Chickamauga that she made her memorable run.
We had stopped to see the visitor’s center and then decided to let her play around a bit. Opening the car door, she bolted out like a streak of lightning and romped around on the grassy field where 142 years earlier men had shot at and killed each other, in order to preserve the nation. She was having a ball just running around, in circles, in straight lines, anything, AND THEN SHE SAW THE BIRDS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I have never seen a dog run as fast as Lily did that day. She reached deep into her ancestry and Whippet heritage as well as her hunting South Carolina Dog instincts and ROARED after a huge flock of birds on the grass. She TORE into that flock like a runaway locomotive! I never saw that puppy run as fast ever again…she was a streak on the grass, hugging low to the ground, her little rear paws reaching all the way to in front of her muzzle (I am not exaggerating!), her forepaws slung out WAY in front and then rotating to almost her behind. She held her head low and just grazing the grass. Had she been a bit older and wiser I am sure she would have caught a few of those birds. They never knew what hit them but all rose in a cloud of alarm and wheeled above us making a cacophony of noise.
After a bit, and seeming very proud of herself, she trotted back to us like a victorious general having vanquished an enemy. I am sure that 142 years earlier, Confederate general Braxton Bragg was not half as proud at defeating his Union counterpart Rosecrans. I never saw her run as fast again, as I have said. It was her Olympic effort and will always stick in my memory as one of the most enjoyable parts of that car trip home.
JP 12-30-2011
Christmas Dementia
Every parent, I am sure, has memories of Christmases with little children that border on Edgar Allen Poe stories: Late night toy assembly followed by wee hours of the morning wake up calls from small fry to come and see what Santa has brought; overly stimulated children with loud toys running amok in the house or children who did NOT get what they asked for and throw a fit. In all honesty I can say we had no such Chevy Chase Christmases.
Before you all think that the three of you wore haloes, let me tell the true facts. Christmas for us was a time of incredible nuclear energy: anticipation, sugar-fueled frenetic activities, present inspection and rattling. The drive to G and G’s house seemed to last forever! There were certain thrills involved in the trip: the car sailing over the huge paving bumps after leaving the Suisun Bridge near the refinery at Martinez. That was always looked forward to with great anticipation as it was like riding a roller coaster; the viewing of the “Ghost Fleet” in Suisun Bay (with attendant ghost story from me) was another looked forward to landmark; looking for the Parish Road sign (sometimes a potty stop) and always remarking that it was wrongly spelled). The culminating activity of the trip was sneaking up to the door on Ronnie way, with the car parked around the corner. Surprise was always happily accomplished. Dishes heaped with M&M’s, nuts, boxes of See’s candy…these were the traps that Grandma set for her grandchildren right inside the front door, and it was LOVED !
The Christmas tree in the living room seemed to be buried under an avalanche of presents. Hours were spent scoping the scene and plotting which to open first, the BIG one or the more mysterious smaller one?! When the car was unloaded our share of Christmas presents was added to the heap and it truly resembled Mt. Shasta.
Christmas Eve, after a dinner of crab, salad and French bread, it was time to leave Santa a note and cookies and carrots for the reindeer. Soon several plates of offerings and missives graced the hearth. Then it was “early to bed” though not early to sleep. More than once a parent had to go and quiet the insane giggling from piles of mummified cousins crammed into the various bedrooms. Only then the serious adult business began! A virtual assembly line of stocking stuffers was laid out across the floor: offerings from us, Margie and Gma were sorted, piled and shoehorned into bulging stockings. Those overloaded excuses for footwear looked like pregnant sausages when we were done and could never have been hung by a chimney with care…they would have pulled down the chimney!
Atrocities began early! Weary adults were cruelly awakened in the wee hours of the morning with screams of “We’re up! Let’s go!“ One memorable Christmas, Rosa came into the “Nursery” where Dan and I were sleeping and woke him up at 4 AM. She had decided to decorate the walls with a long paper chain of Christmas drawings that she had created only hours earlier! They began to tape this to the walls of our room and in doing so she calmly stepped on my face (I was still in my bag trying to rest) and carefully taped a portion to the wall before moving on…totally oblivious to her uncle’s plight. Such was our Christmas madness.
When everyone had been dragged reluctantly to the front room, the frenzy began. The floor of the New York Stock Exchange on Black Friday was a tame kindergarten scene compared to what ensued. Each child, and adult, had a section of the floor (and a large shopping bag thoughtfully supplied by Grandma) to corral their booty in. Such piles of loot! [In writing this I am made aware of how fortunate and privileged we were and are still. Piles of paper and ribbon more befitting a hamster cage littered the floor.
Then it was Hi- Ho to get dressed and take the outside toys outside to test and run. New bikes were ridden up and down the driveway an on Ronnie Way. Dan’s plastic chain saw and hard hat were worn and used all day…thousands of board feet of the giant Eucalyptus tree were harvested with that raucous plastic implement. Dolls were groomed and preened, trucks run on the floor, books read, candy slurped, and yes, Pop always got an onion or a potato in his stocking. (hear hilarious laughter from kids here). Mom always got loads of tangerines.
Becca relates that her cousin Rosa was the culprit who inadvertently helped her realize that there was no Santa Claus. In making her wish list for Santa, helper Rosa kept writing the word “BIKE” down, even though Becca did not wish for a bike this Christmas. Rosa was insistent and it was finally allowed to stay. When a bike was wheeled in on Christmas morning, Becca realized that Rosa had known all along that she was getting one. Connecting the dots, Becca figured out the obvious result, sadly crushing her belief in Santa.
Of course as the years progressed and teenagers morphed from wee tots, Christmas became a later and later event in the morning. Sleep became a treasured item and presents became more refined and mature. Now my babies are adults and put on Christmases of their own. Many of the legends and traditions live on. Now, in writing this, I am made aware of how fortunate and privileged we were and are still.
JP 12-17-2011
Before you all think that the three of you wore haloes, let me tell the true facts. Christmas for us was a time of incredible nuclear energy: anticipation, sugar-fueled frenetic activities, present inspection and rattling. The drive to G and G’s house seemed to last forever! There were certain thrills involved in the trip: the car sailing over the huge paving bumps after leaving the Suisun Bridge near the refinery at Martinez. That was always looked forward to with great anticipation as it was like riding a roller coaster; the viewing of the “Ghost Fleet” in Suisun Bay (with attendant ghost story from me) was another looked forward to landmark; looking for the Parish Road sign (sometimes a potty stop) and always remarking that it was wrongly spelled). The culminating activity of the trip was sneaking up to the door on Ronnie way, with the car parked around the corner. Surprise was always happily accomplished. Dishes heaped with M&M’s, nuts, boxes of See’s candy…these were the traps that Grandma set for her grandchildren right inside the front door, and it was LOVED !
The Christmas tree in the living room seemed to be buried under an avalanche of presents. Hours were spent scoping the scene and plotting which to open first, the BIG one or the more mysterious smaller one?! When the car was unloaded our share of Christmas presents was added to the heap and it truly resembled Mt. Shasta.
Christmas Eve, after a dinner of crab, salad and French bread, it was time to leave Santa a note and cookies and carrots for the reindeer. Soon several plates of offerings and missives graced the hearth. Then it was “early to bed” though not early to sleep. More than once a parent had to go and quiet the insane giggling from piles of mummified cousins crammed into the various bedrooms. Only then the serious adult business began! A virtual assembly line of stocking stuffers was laid out across the floor: offerings from us, Margie and Gma were sorted, piled and shoehorned into bulging stockings. Those overloaded excuses for footwear looked like pregnant sausages when we were done and could never have been hung by a chimney with care…they would have pulled down the chimney!
Atrocities began early! Weary adults were cruelly awakened in the wee hours of the morning with screams of “We’re up! Let’s go!“ One memorable Christmas, Rosa came into the “Nursery” where Dan and I were sleeping and woke him up at 4 AM. She had decided to decorate the walls with a long paper chain of Christmas drawings that she had created only hours earlier! They began to tape this to the walls of our room and in doing so she calmly stepped on my face (I was still in my bag trying to rest) and carefully taped a portion to the wall before moving on…totally oblivious to her uncle’s plight. Such was our Christmas madness.
When everyone had been dragged reluctantly to the front room, the frenzy began. The floor of the New York Stock Exchange on Black Friday was a tame kindergarten scene compared to what ensued. Each child, and adult, had a section of the floor (and a large shopping bag thoughtfully supplied by Grandma) to corral their booty in. Such piles of loot! [In writing this I am made aware of how fortunate and privileged we were and are still. Piles of paper and ribbon more befitting a hamster cage littered the floor.
Then it was Hi- Ho to get dressed and take the outside toys outside to test and run. New bikes were ridden up and down the driveway an on Ronnie Way. Dan’s plastic chain saw and hard hat were worn and used all day…thousands of board feet of the giant Eucalyptus tree were harvested with that raucous plastic implement. Dolls were groomed and preened, trucks run on the floor, books read, candy slurped, and yes, Pop always got an onion or a potato in his stocking. (hear hilarious laughter from kids here). Mom always got loads of tangerines.
Becca relates that her cousin Rosa was the culprit who inadvertently helped her realize that there was no Santa Claus. In making her wish list for Santa, helper Rosa kept writing the word “BIKE” down, even though Becca did not wish for a bike this Christmas. Rosa was insistent and it was finally allowed to stay. When a bike was wheeled in on Christmas morning, Becca realized that Rosa had known all along that she was getting one. Connecting the dots, Becca figured out the obvious result, sadly crushing her belief in Santa.
Of course as the years progressed and teenagers morphed from wee tots, Christmas became a later and later event in the morning. Sleep became a treasured item and presents became more refined and mature. Now my babies are adults and put on Christmases of their own. Many of the legends and traditions live on. Now, in writing this, I am made aware of how fortunate and privileged we were and are still.
JP 12-17-2011
Thursday, December 29, 2011
The Empty Chair
The table is laden with Christmas cheer.
Smiles and laughter and warmth is here.
Yet an emptiness pervades, unbidden, rank.
Not everyone is present to enjoy the day.
There is an empty chair.
Of our three children , one is gone.
A discordant note in the Christmas song.
The passing years have taken a toll.
So many celebrations missed, passed by.
There is an empty chair.
I pray and hope one day to see.
My smiling children, yes, all three.
Gathered again in love, joy and smiles.
And that never again will I say
There is an empty chair.
JP 12-26-2011
Smiles and laughter and warmth is here.
Yet an emptiness pervades, unbidden, rank.
Not everyone is present to enjoy the day.
There is an empty chair.
Of our three children , one is gone.
A discordant note in the Christmas song.
The passing years have taken a toll.
So many celebrations missed, passed by.
There is an empty chair.
I pray and hope one day to see.
My smiling children, yes, all three.
Gathered again in love, joy and smiles.
And that never again will I say
There is an empty chair.
JP 12-26-2011
Pajaro Dunes
The several years that the family enjoyed the beaches near Watsonville, were filled with wonderful and warm memories for us all. Thanks to the largesse of Grampsters and Grandma, most often a single large house was rented at this seaside resort. The weathered boardwalks crossing the sand dunes would resound to the rattling wheels of old shopping carts and dollies as family after family hauled toys, food, clothes and cooking gear into the vacation home that had been selected. There were more than a few unofficial shopping cart races held with squealing children being pushed by over-exuberant dads rivaling the Indy 500. Tiers of floors and voluminous bedrooms housed us all, and it was not uncommon for layers of cousins in sleeping bags to be piled helter-skelter on the floor of one “kid dorm” with grateful parents enjoying a semblance of peace and privacy in their own rooms.
Mealtimes were vast assembly lines of children and adults lined up for helpings of previously home- cooked meals (at the beginning of the week) or mounds of last leftovers (towards the end). The soup lines of the Great Depression or the efficiency of the military mess hall pale in contrast to the regimen and order that oversaw everyone being fed as much as they wanted.
Eating dispensed with there was a rush to the beach, each body, young and old, grasping the sand toy or beach towel and chair of their desire. Soon the troops were spread across acres of sand, the younger ones watched with eagle eyes by parents nearby, the older ones trusted to be more sensible and off on their own. In the years I knew Pajaro, Cece would either be in the water or “sunning” on her towel on the sand by the adults. Dan would have first become engrossed digging and building a HUGE sand fortification to defy the later high tide. This usually entailed slave labor from the paternal parent. Then it was off to wash off in the surf and collect interesting shells, dead crab parts, smelly seaweed and other flotsam to decorate his creation. Becca, being small during most of these years, was pretty well tied to grown up attention and happily was swished in the surf or daringly wet her toes while holding on to a parental hand.
Early morning walks along the beach were de rigueur since that was the best sand dollar finding time and that was big fun. Also high on the list was digging for sand crabs, looking for the bubbles coming up in the wet sand and digging like mad then scooping handfuls of crawling, clinging, scuttling crabs into plastic buckets to be lugged back to the beach house. Inevitably, an adult would oversee the return of the bucket loads back to the beach before too long so the inmates would not expire.
When Xochitl and Rosa came we would see Xochitl usually demurely wading or sunning and benignly overseeing her little cousins. Rosa defied Nature’s wrath in wading out far too far into the surf and challenging Neptune to a battle of wits when she was not helping Dan to reluctantly re-design his castle. The Coopers would show up and share in the fun, Nate being an inveterate water bug like his Dad, always in the surf with John.
Evenings were filled with games and stories, feeding and walks on the beach (Dan sadly surveying the ruins of his handiwork). Smores and a campfire or two fill my memory. Superintending all of this ordered chaos with benevolent smiles would be the progenitors, Mom and Dad Cooper, happily soaking it all in. Many times Dad brought his video camera and the incessant photo ops taxed his energy. We all delighted in watching the movies and laughing at our antics. At night, as silence reigned over the house (finally) the never ceasing roar of the surf lulled one to sleep, punctuated with the muted moan of the foghorn off Point Jo. Heaven must be like that.
JP 12-16-2011
Mealtimes were vast assembly lines of children and adults lined up for helpings of previously home- cooked meals (at the beginning of the week) or mounds of last leftovers (towards the end). The soup lines of the Great Depression or the efficiency of the military mess hall pale in contrast to the regimen and order that oversaw everyone being fed as much as they wanted.
Eating dispensed with there was a rush to the beach, each body, young and old, grasping the sand toy or beach towel and chair of their desire. Soon the troops were spread across acres of sand, the younger ones watched with eagle eyes by parents nearby, the older ones trusted to be more sensible and off on their own. In the years I knew Pajaro, Cece would either be in the water or “sunning” on her towel on the sand by the adults. Dan would have first become engrossed digging and building a HUGE sand fortification to defy the later high tide. This usually entailed slave labor from the paternal parent. Then it was off to wash off in the surf and collect interesting shells, dead crab parts, smelly seaweed and other flotsam to decorate his creation. Becca, being small during most of these years, was pretty well tied to grown up attention and happily was swished in the surf or daringly wet her toes while holding on to a parental hand.
Early morning walks along the beach were de rigueur since that was the best sand dollar finding time and that was big fun. Also high on the list was digging for sand crabs, looking for the bubbles coming up in the wet sand and digging like mad then scooping handfuls of crawling, clinging, scuttling crabs into plastic buckets to be lugged back to the beach house. Inevitably, an adult would oversee the return of the bucket loads back to the beach before too long so the inmates would not expire.
When Xochitl and Rosa came we would see Xochitl usually demurely wading or sunning and benignly overseeing her little cousins. Rosa defied Nature’s wrath in wading out far too far into the surf and challenging Neptune to a battle of wits when she was not helping Dan to reluctantly re-design his castle. The Coopers would show up and share in the fun, Nate being an inveterate water bug like his Dad, always in the surf with John.
Evenings were filled with games and stories, feeding and walks on the beach (Dan sadly surveying the ruins of his handiwork). Smores and a campfire or two fill my memory. Superintending all of this ordered chaos with benevolent smiles would be the progenitors, Mom and Dad Cooper, happily soaking it all in. Many times Dad brought his video camera and the incessant photo ops taxed his energy. We all delighted in watching the movies and laughing at our antics. At night, as silence reigned over the house (finally) the never ceasing roar of the surf lulled one to sleep, punctuated with the muted moan of the foghorn off Point Jo. Heaven must be like that.
JP 12-16-2011
Easter Frolics
Over the years our children were growing up, Easter was a time of great expectation and sugar-fueled activity. Egg hunting was an intense competition with older siblings garnering mountains of eggs and candy-filled plastic egg containers. Little ones were “aided” by grunts and pointing from various helpful adults with hints of “getting closer” and “look over here.” There would be a line up of child “contestants” and then like a rodeo or horse race, at a given signal everyone would pour out of the chute. Afterwards, joyous scarfing of hunt results filled Easter afternoon, not to be outdone by the traditional scrumptious Easter dinner. Despite some documented forays into little ones’ baskets by large adults, appetites seemed not to be affected.
Grandma and Grandpa’s house was the primary spot for Easter celebrations for the Parrish clan. There was one memorable Easter that was celebrated at Pajaro Dunes with egg hunting on the clubhouse lawn and in nearby shrubs. A photo shows a five year-old Becca, replete with new Easter outfit, sitting on the clubhouse lawn, seemingly exhausted from her hunting. There exists a picture of Daniel, two years old, clad in red feet pajamas, nibbling on the ears of a chocolate bunny in our trailer at Powell, Idaho. That Easter would have been celebrated in the pine and fir clad fastness of the Clearwater National Forest. In the same time frame, five year old Cece is posing for the camera, demurely holding up her basket with chocolate bunny still intact and in the box. Her coy expression, however, holds no hope for the survival of bunny for long.
In later years, nutrition-wise parent substituted items like books and toys for sugar. Grandma continued to be the pipeline for goodies and new spring outfits. No doubt G+G will always be thought of as synonymous with the Easter Bunny’s largesse.
JP 12-21-2011
Grandma and Grandpa’s house was the primary spot for Easter celebrations for the Parrish clan. There was one memorable Easter that was celebrated at Pajaro Dunes with egg hunting on the clubhouse lawn and in nearby shrubs. A photo shows a five year-old Becca, replete with new Easter outfit, sitting on the clubhouse lawn, seemingly exhausted from her hunting. There exists a picture of Daniel, two years old, clad in red feet pajamas, nibbling on the ears of a chocolate bunny in our trailer at Powell, Idaho. That Easter would have been celebrated in the pine and fir clad fastness of the Clearwater National Forest. In the same time frame, five year old Cece is posing for the camera, demurely holding up her basket with chocolate bunny still intact and in the box. Her coy expression, however, holds no hope for the survival of bunny for long.
In later years, nutrition-wise parent substituted items like books and toys for sugar. Grandma continued to be the pipeline for goodies and new spring outfits. No doubt G+G will always be thought of as synonymous with the Easter Bunny’s largesse.
JP 12-21-2011
Elmira Vegetable Wars
The school year of 1990-1991, was a wonderful watershed teaching year for me. I had taught the previous six years at Ulatis Elementary School in Vacaville (city proper) mostly primary grades two through four. While I love teaching, the primary grades were not my forte and I was finally able to get transferred to Elmira Elementary School to teach Grade Six. This school was comprised of portable classrooms surrounding a small original school building dating from the 1930’s. It served the outlying rural areas of Vacaville and even boasted a small “farm” of animals and gardens that were the students’ responsibility. The administration included a great Vice Principal, Shelly Dally, who was an inspired and outstanding educator.
One of the draws of the school site was its VERY close proximity to the Southern Pacific Main Line from the Bay Area to Sacramento. Huge speeding “hot” freights roared by seven or eight times a day and shook the portables with their passing. Teacher Parrish most always contrived to be by the door of his portable to scan the freight as it passed! This also was the year that Daniel did Fifth Grade with Mr. May in the adjoining portable. We had transferred him from Valley Oak School in Davis, to avoid a teacher personality issue. It was wonderful to have my Boyo go to work with me and be able to see him playing at recess and in Mr. May’s room hard at work on Allen’s many creative projects. But, I digress from the real story here.
Often, on weekends, I would go to work and do lesson planning for the next week. Just as often, Dan and Becca would accompany me (many times riding in the 1930 Chevrolet truck) and Dan would proudly show her the “farm” and the school and they would play in the yard with recess balls from my room. Other times they would draw and work quietly on projects of their own at one of the student desks while I waltzed about the room gathering materials, referencing teacher’s manuals or going to the office to make copies. When I was done, then began the fun!!!!!
When I had moved from Ulatis and was cleaning out the portable before the school year began, I had discovered several large cloth sewn beanbags which were in the shape of vegetables. I remember a carrot, a bell pepper, celery and an eggplant. Their purpose was lost in the annals of the past but we invented a fun game using them. Closing the windows and blacking out the room totally, we chased each other and tried to hit the other person with a flying vegetable. Squeals, screams, grunts, groans (mostly from me), giggles, laughter, strange oinking sounds (mostly from the kids) filled the darkness to the accompaniment of crashing desks, thumps on the walls and sliding chairs. The end of the game would usually find us exhausted, lying on the floor, gasping for breath and laughing uproariously. I remember many bruises on my knees and I think now that I came out the loser most often. Try as we might we were never able to coax Cece down to the school. She had heard of our crazy game and perhaps she was the smartest one of all!
Sadly, the shenanigans in Elmira lasted only one year as we moved to Yakima in the summer of 1991. Working in Vacaville was a graced period of personal reconstruction for me from the pits of alcoholism. I was a rejuvenated teacher (and father) and that time will forever be special. Those were wonderful times that I cherish fondly.
JP 12-29-2011
One of the draws of the school site was its VERY close proximity to the Southern Pacific Main Line from the Bay Area to Sacramento. Huge speeding “hot” freights roared by seven or eight times a day and shook the portables with their passing. Teacher Parrish most always contrived to be by the door of his portable to scan the freight as it passed! This also was the year that Daniel did Fifth Grade with Mr. May in the adjoining portable. We had transferred him from Valley Oak School in Davis, to avoid a teacher personality issue. It was wonderful to have my Boyo go to work with me and be able to see him playing at recess and in Mr. May’s room hard at work on Allen’s many creative projects. But, I digress from the real story here.
Often, on weekends, I would go to work and do lesson planning for the next week. Just as often, Dan and Becca would accompany me (many times riding in the 1930 Chevrolet truck) and Dan would proudly show her the “farm” and the school and they would play in the yard with recess balls from my room. Other times they would draw and work quietly on projects of their own at one of the student desks while I waltzed about the room gathering materials, referencing teacher’s manuals or going to the office to make copies. When I was done, then began the fun!!!!!
When I had moved from Ulatis and was cleaning out the portable before the school year began, I had discovered several large cloth sewn beanbags which were in the shape of vegetables. I remember a carrot, a bell pepper, celery and an eggplant. Their purpose was lost in the annals of the past but we invented a fun game using them. Closing the windows and blacking out the room totally, we chased each other and tried to hit the other person with a flying vegetable. Squeals, screams, grunts, groans (mostly from me), giggles, laughter, strange oinking sounds (mostly from the kids) filled the darkness to the accompaniment of crashing desks, thumps on the walls and sliding chairs. The end of the game would usually find us exhausted, lying on the floor, gasping for breath and laughing uproariously. I remember many bruises on my knees and I think now that I came out the loser most often. Try as we might we were never able to coax Cece down to the school. She had heard of our crazy game and perhaps she was the smartest one of all!
Sadly, the shenanigans in Elmira lasted only one year as we moved to Yakima in the summer of 1991. Working in Vacaville was a graced period of personal reconstruction for me from the pits of alcoholism. I was a rejuvenated teacher (and father) and that time will forever be special. Those were wonderful times that I cherish fondly.
JP 12-29-2011
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Gilbert Road Overview
I think of all the places that we have lived, the hardest for me to say "Good Bye" to was Gilbert Road. Even now, ten years after we moved from there, I find myself wishing we were still in residence on "Swede Hill" True, it would have been way too much for two older people to take care of now, and not having children at home, with their old friends also grown up and gone, it would be so different.
We had ten wonderful years there; the ten years we had prayed for when we moved. Almost immediately falling into friends with the Bortons, Brewers and others, our social life was rich. Our children had wonderrful times in Scouts and 4H and beloved Rusty made his first appearence there, to Cece's delight. Playing in the orchards in summer and winter, surrouded by the majestic desert ridges of the Ahtanum Valley, with easy access to the Cascades, it was Heaven.
For me, the acreage was space for old trucks and rust and the barn was a haven for tinkering and artifact collection. Nellie fit right in and we had such fun chugging around "the big block" and up and down Occidental Road to school, and all the other spots. "Ladybug", our '63 Jeep wagon, and the other wrecks I drug home fit in.
The house was so primo. It was well refurbished and yet kept the 1921 flavor and charm. All this is in retrospect, and hindsight is self selective. Good times loom large and the bad times, and there were some, fade into the background. Life is never 100% one way or the other...good or bad.
When our last buglet, Becca, left for school, being on Gilbert Road became hollow for me. The children were growing up and leaving and times were changing, for all of us. Moving to a smaller place in town seemed sensible and so we did it. Now, looking back ten years, it was sensible but the grieving, for me, continues. I long to have Gilert Road back, but only with the kids little and untrammeled again. Yet, I cannot stop the wheel of life, time waits not for me.
We had ten wonderful years there; the ten years we had prayed for when we moved. Almost immediately falling into friends with the Bortons, Brewers and others, our social life was rich. Our children had wonderrful times in Scouts and 4H and beloved Rusty made his first appearence there, to Cece's delight. Playing in the orchards in summer and winter, surrouded by the majestic desert ridges of the Ahtanum Valley, with easy access to the Cascades, it was Heaven.
For me, the acreage was space for old trucks and rust and the barn was a haven for tinkering and artifact collection. Nellie fit right in and we had such fun chugging around "the big block" and up and down Occidental Road to school, and all the other spots. "Ladybug", our '63 Jeep wagon, and the other wrecks I drug home fit in.
The house was so primo. It was well refurbished and yet kept the 1921 flavor and charm. All this is in retrospect, and hindsight is self selective. Good times loom large and the bad times, and there were some, fade into the background. Life is never 100% one way or the other...good or bad.
When our last buglet, Becca, left for school, being on Gilbert Road became hollow for me. The children were growing up and leaving and times were changing, for all of us. Moving to a smaller place in town seemed sensible and so we did it. Now, looking back ten years, it was sensible but the grieving, for me, continues. I long to have Gilert Road back, but only with the kids little and untrammeled again. Yet, I cannot stop the wheel of life, time waits not for me.
Pumpkin Carving Mania
The first October that we were in Yakima,(1991) we held the first Great Pumpkin Carving Contest. I believe that it originated with the idea of thanking all the people who had befriended us since our arrival. Neighbors and co-workers and their children, as well as our children’s friends were invited. It turned out to be a gala event.
We held it in the field in front of our barn. The trampoline was hauled out there and we had tables and benches set up. People were asked to bring raw pumpkins to carve. I forget who we set up as impartial judges but it was arranged that every participant (child) would get an award. There were categories such as “Most Scary”, ‘Most Beautiful”, “Most original”, “Most creative”, Most Friendly”, etc. We had made ribbons and certificates for the winners.
It was a glorious, sunny, Fall day and we had a crowd! The gutting of pumpkins began in earnest and there were refreshments both provided and brought, apple cider, tea and coffee (I had borrowed an urn from school). Buckets of pumpkin guts and chunks were hauled to our newly-made composting area and the next year did we EVER have a bumper crop of pumpkin plants!
The final resulting creations were lined up on the long picnic table benches and a few spare hay bales. Then serious judging began. In the end, everyone took home a winner and I remember that it was dusk before the last contestants and parents left. I think a good time was had by all and I think it help put our little family “on the map”in the neighborhood.
JP 12-22-2011
We held it in the field in front of our barn. The trampoline was hauled out there and we had tables and benches set up. People were asked to bring raw pumpkins to carve. I forget who we set up as impartial judges but it was arranged that every participant (child) would get an award. There were categories such as “Most Scary”, ‘Most Beautiful”, “Most original”, “Most creative”, Most Friendly”, etc. We had made ribbons and certificates for the winners.
It was a glorious, sunny, Fall day and we had a crowd! The gutting of pumpkins began in earnest and there were refreshments both provided and brought, apple cider, tea and coffee (I had borrowed an urn from school). Buckets of pumpkin guts and chunks were hauled to our newly-made composting area and the next year did we EVER have a bumper crop of pumpkin plants!
The final resulting creations were lined up on the long picnic table benches and a few spare hay bales. Then serious judging began. In the end, everyone took home a winner and I remember that it was dusk before the last contestants and parents left. I think a good time was had by all and I think it help put our little family “on the map”in the neighborhood.
JP 12-22-2011
"Discovering" Mt. Rainier
One of the more humorous and fun adventures that we partook in, upon moving to Washington, was the “discovery” of Mt. Rainier. As we were camping at Cottonwood Campground on Hwy 410, (July 1991) waiting for our house to be vacant, it was natural to want to see what was further up the road. Kate heard that the road was one of the routes to get to Mt. Rainier, Washington’s signature mountain.
One day we left camp to explore in the opposite direction from our usual treks into Yakima. Heading up that beautiful highway, we marveled at the scenery and tumbling Naches River. Passing Bumping Road, the entrance to BSA Camp Fife, little did we know about the wonderful future part that place would play in Dan’s and our lives.
Arriving at Chinook Pass, the top of the road before it falls into Mt. Rainier Ntl. Park, we were amazed to find snow but despondent not to have seen Mt. Rainier. Everyone needed a stretch and so we exited the car and took a short hike to Sheep Lake, about a mile. All along the trail we marveled at the steep rock pinnacles surrounding us.. Becca and Daniel had a ball sliding down the remnant snows of winter that clothed the slopes by the parking lot. They decided that this new home was pretty cool to have snow in the summer. Kate and I drank in the awesome scenery of our newly adopted state. We decided that we had “done good.”
However, there was some disappointment at not finding either the National Park entrance or seeing Mt. Rainier itself. At Kate’s suggestion we decided to go a few more miles to see if we could find the park. Around the very next bend (but hidden from sight by the hills) we discovered the rustic log arch entry that crossed the road and announced the park. Well, so far so good; now to see if we could catch a glimpse of the fabled fire mountain.
Rounding two more bends in the road, OH, MY GOD! …startling us and practically filling the entire windshield was that majestic beauty!!!!! It was awesome, breath-taking, humbling and just way toooooooo beautiful! It looked almost as if it was right next to the car when in reality it’s 14,000+ feet as many miles away. We just stopped the car at the side of the road and quietly drank in the beauty of that monolith. It was as if we were prehistoric peoples catching a first glimpse of the unearthly spectacle. I do not remember the kids uttering a word. If they were like me, they were held speechless in awe.
Finally, reluctantly, we turned the car around and headed back to camp. I know that we vowed to come back soon and explore the park and the mountain. In the subsequent years we did venture many places there and Kate, with Kim, friends and the Cascadians hiked many trails. Even as recently as two years ago (2010) Kate and I have gone back to what has become a religious place, holy ground. Both of us hope to return. Sadly, we were never given the credit and fame for “discovering” Mt. Rainier. Life has its inequities.
JP 12-22-2011
One day we left camp to explore in the opposite direction from our usual treks into Yakima. Heading up that beautiful highway, we marveled at the scenery and tumbling Naches River. Passing Bumping Road, the entrance to BSA Camp Fife, little did we know about the wonderful future part that place would play in Dan’s and our lives.
Arriving at Chinook Pass, the top of the road before it falls into Mt. Rainier Ntl. Park, we were amazed to find snow but despondent not to have seen Mt. Rainier. Everyone needed a stretch and so we exited the car and took a short hike to Sheep Lake, about a mile. All along the trail we marveled at the steep rock pinnacles surrounding us.. Becca and Daniel had a ball sliding down the remnant snows of winter that clothed the slopes by the parking lot. They decided that this new home was pretty cool to have snow in the summer. Kate and I drank in the awesome scenery of our newly adopted state. We decided that we had “done good.”
However, there was some disappointment at not finding either the National Park entrance or seeing Mt. Rainier itself. At Kate’s suggestion we decided to go a few more miles to see if we could find the park. Around the very next bend (but hidden from sight by the hills) we discovered the rustic log arch entry that crossed the road and announced the park. Well, so far so good; now to see if we could catch a glimpse of the fabled fire mountain.
Rounding two more bends in the road, OH, MY GOD! …startling us and practically filling the entire windshield was that majestic beauty!!!!! It was awesome, breath-taking, humbling and just way toooooooo beautiful! It looked almost as if it was right next to the car when in reality it’s 14,000+ feet as many miles away. We just stopped the car at the side of the road and quietly drank in the beauty of that monolith. It was as if we were prehistoric peoples catching a first glimpse of the unearthly spectacle. I do not remember the kids uttering a word. If they were like me, they were held speechless in awe.
Finally, reluctantly, we turned the car around and headed back to camp. I know that we vowed to come back soon and explore the park and the mountain. In the subsequent years we did venture many places there and Kate, with Kim, friends and the Cascadians hiked many trails. Even as recently as two years ago (2010) Kate and I have gone back to what has become a religious place, holy ground. Both of us hope to return. Sadly, we were never given the credit and fame for “discovering” Mt. Rainier. Life has its inequities.
JP 12-22-2011
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Cache Creek
It is interesting how this name, when applied to a dry, crusted creek bed in Yolo County, can bring tears to my eyes. The old, white two story farmhouse, surrounded by huge oak trees and acres of corn, proved to be my salvation in July of 1984. I celebrated my 33rd birthday there, at the addiction recovery house operated by the county.
The whys and manifestations of my alcoholism are too numerous to list here. Suffice it to say that my choosing alcohol to mask the disappointments in my life was a POOR choice on my part. I see now that my general unpreparedness for the monumental changes in my life from 1978 to 1984, was what drove me to drink. Having had several ineffective attempts to stop drinking, only to be followed by my secreting bottles about and continuing to do so, Kate gave me an ultimatum. Something final had to be done or I would no longer be part of this family.
I shudder even now reading those words. It is impossible to describe the feeling of helpless loneliness and despair I felt. My family was my life but alcohol had become my driving force. Thankfully, Kate had heard of Cache Creek and called to see if there was an opening. There was, and I was amenable to going. Something final and permanent had to be done, though now I understand that the desire to stop drinking has to come from inside the individual and is not imparted by the facility. The place only affords the opportunity to stop and take stock of one’s life and habits, giving one a chance to change destructive behaviors.
Anyhow, the first of July saw us arrive at Cache Creek where I met Stu Driver, the crusty director. Volumes could be filled (and will be related upon request) with my conversations with him, his comments to Kate and my subsequent stay there of 30 days. It was the best and most profitable 30 day “vacation” I have had in my life!!!! Watching our Chevy van drive away, three little kids, faces peering out the windows and waving at me, broke my heart. Right then, I am convinced, my resolve hardened and I began to truly recover. I was not going to lose my family…not to Jack Daniels, actually by that time…cheap vodka!!!!!!
My weeks were filled with meetings, chores around the house and time for self-reflection and journaling. Those notes are still in existence in a box in the rafters of the garage. At the end, I was awarded a SORT Tee shirt, a big reward and acknowledgement of working towards being a “Self-Organized and Rational Thinker.” Very few were ever given out according to Stu.
On July 22nd, my birthday, everyone arrived for a visit. I was in ecstasy. No more disembodied little voices on the phone. The touch of my wife’s lips accompanied with a smile. Little bear hugs and squeals of joy! I felt that I could live forever. Even crusty Stu seemed to mellow having the little ones around and he drug out some dusty toys from the basement for them to play with. The two house dogs, Risk and Pat, seemed to enjoy, or at least tolerate, petting and being played with.
That was near to the end of my stay, as on July 31st, I went home and we immediately began packing for our move to Davis, to a house that Kate had found. She had decided on Davis as a “kid-friendly” place to raise children, cheaper than the Bay Area and she remembered much of it from having finished her college years there. “Big Biker Billy”, a recovery friend from CC, helped us move and the Parrish Punkos were re-railed and back on track. Davis became home for the next seven years and my professional redemption occurred in securing a teaching job, first in Sacramento at a Catholic School-Holy Spirit, for a year, and then for the next six with the Vacaville Unified School District. Stu’s words were prophetic and so correct, “The worst day sober is better than the best day drunk.” How true that has proven to be!
JP 12-21-2011
The whys and manifestations of my alcoholism are too numerous to list here. Suffice it to say that my choosing alcohol to mask the disappointments in my life was a POOR choice on my part. I see now that my general unpreparedness for the monumental changes in my life from 1978 to 1984, was what drove me to drink. Having had several ineffective attempts to stop drinking, only to be followed by my secreting bottles about and continuing to do so, Kate gave me an ultimatum. Something final had to be done or I would no longer be part of this family.
I shudder even now reading those words. It is impossible to describe the feeling of helpless loneliness and despair I felt. My family was my life but alcohol had become my driving force. Thankfully, Kate had heard of Cache Creek and called to see if there was an opening. There was, and I was amenable to going. Something final and permanent had to be done, though now I understand that the desire to stop drinking has to come from inside the individual and is not imparted by the facility. The place only affords the opportunity to stop and take stock of one’s life and habits, giving one a chance to change destructive behaviors.
Anyhow, the first of July saw us arrive at Cache Creek where I met Stu Driver, the crusty director. Volumes could be filled (and will be related upon request) with my conversations with him, his comments to Kate and my subsequent stay there of 30 days. It was the best and most profitable 30 day “vacation” I have had in my life!!!! Watching our Chevy van drive away, three little kids, faces peering out the windows and waving at me, broke my heart. Right then, I am convinced, my resolve hardened and I began to truly recover. I was not going to lose my family…not to Jack Daniels, actually by that time…cheap vodka!!!!!!
My weeks were filled with meetings, chores around the house and time for self-reflection and journaling. Those notes are still in existence in a box in the rafters of the garage. At the end, I was awarded a SORT Tee shirt, a big reward and acknowledgement of working towards being a “Self-Organized and Rational Thinker.” Very few were ever given out according to Stu.
On July 22nd, my birthday, everyone arrived for a visit. I was in ecstasy. No more disembodied little voices on the phone. The touch of my wife’s lips accompanied with a smile. Little bear hugs and squeals of joy! I felt that I could live forever. Even crusty Stu seemed to mellow having the little ones around and he drug out some dusty toys from the basement for them to play with. The two house dogs, Risk and Pat, seemed to enjoy, or at least tolerate, petting and being played with.
That was near to the end of my stay, as on July 31st, I went home and we immediately began packing for our move to Davis, to a house that Kate had found. She had decided on Davis as a “kid-friendly” place to raise children, cheaper than the Bay Area and she remembered much of it from having finished her college years there. “Big Biker Billy”, a recovery friend from CC, helped us move and the Parrish Punkos were re-railed and back on track. Davis became home for the next seven years and my professional redemption occurred in securing a teaching job, first in Sacramento at a Catholic School-Holy Spirit, for a year, and then for the next six with the Vacaville Unified School District. Stu’s words were prophetic and so correct, “The worst day sober is better than the best day drunk.” How true that has proven to be!
JP 12-21-2011
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Moving To Yakima
In the Summer of 1991, at the end of June, we moved from Davis, California to Yakima, Washington. Having had to vacate our sold house in Davis, we came to Washington over three weeks earlier than our house would be ready there. Putting the U-Haul stuff in storage we began our camping odyssey at Sportsman’s Park in Yakima. Dan and Becca were with us, Cece was getting a G+G fix in Saratoga.
That place quickly lost its charm as it was more of a weekend picnicking spot and also there were tons of RV’s. Also, it was just too crowded and urban and across the freeway from the Yakima Speedway with all its grinding and roaring race car noise. We hung in there for several days (one day Kate ironed our good clothes on the only flat surface available…the lavatory floor!). Then she had the great idea to drive out on Hwy 410, the road to Mt. Rainier, and camp at one of the Forest Service campgrounds there. It would be much more picturesque and private. This we did in a flash. It proved to be much more exciting and satisfying.
Camped by the Naches River, we were right on the water and that lent itself to all sorts of water play, fishing and even baths and showers in a hidden spot nearby. The water was COLD, however. Often we had chores in town during the day and we would leave our campsite, dressed up in non-camping togs, and spend the day in errands, getting bank accounts set up, power and oil service begun, etc. We also visited schools and enrolled the punks. Occasional treats of ice cream bars at the local camping store and also burgers in town helped some of us weather the rugged privations of our pioneer living.
Evenings would be spent in horseplay (usually wet), fishing (Dan caught a beauty), cooking dinner and attendant camp chores. Bedtime brought hilarious antics from our dog, Jumper. It was ordained by the adults that she sleep outside the tent. However, after snuggling into our bags we would slowly feel this creeping, crawling presence worm its way through the lower slit in the door (ventilation) and being too tired to do anything, morning would find her happily asleep at our feet.
The Fourth of July that year provided huge excitement with our very own forest fire that darn near came close to getting us evacuated. Rubbish burning at a nearby cabin got out of control and we watched smoke and then flames move over the ridge separating us from the spot of origin. Back and forth went fire helicopters dangling canvas fire buckets on a long cable, hovering over a dammed up area on the river as the lowered bucket filled. Then off they went to empty it on the fire. Luckily for us, it was put under control not too close to our own Cottonwood Campground.
Those days before we moved into Gilbert Road were wonderful, sylvan and provide many fond memories. We were certainly glad to finally move in but whenever we passed Cottonwood on the way to Mt. Rainier or some other family or scout campout/hike, we always remembered our time there with happy commentary.
JP 12-20-2011
That place quickly lost its charm as it was more of a weekend picnicking spot and also there were tons of RV’s. Also, it was just too crowded and urban and across the freeway from the Yakima Speedway with all its grinding and roaring race car noise. We hung in there for several days (one day Kate ironed our good clothes on the only flat surface available…the lavatory floor!). Then she had the great idea to drive out on Hwy 410, the road to Mt. Rainier, and camp at one of the Forest Service campgrounds there. It would be much more picturesque and private. This we did in a flash. It proved to be much more exciting and satisfying.
Camped by the Naches River, we were right on the water and that lent itself to all sorts of water play, fishing and even baths and showers in a hidden spot nearby. The water was COLD, however. Often we had chores in town during the day and we would leave our campsite, dressed up in non-camping togs, and spend the day in errands, getting bank accounts set up, power and oil service begun, etc. We also visited schools and enrolled the punks. Occasional treats of ice cream bars at the local camping store and also burgers in town helped some of us weather the rugged privations of our pioneer living.
Evenings would be spent in horseplay (usually wet), fishing (Dan caught a beauty), cooking dinner and attendant camp chores. Bedtime brought hilarious antics from our dog, Jumper. It was ordained by the adults that she sleep outside the tent. However, after snuggling into our bags we would slowly feel this creeping, crawling presence worm its way through the lower slit in the door (ventilation) and being too tired to do anything, morning would find her happily asleep at our feet.
The Fourth of July that year provided huge excitement with our very own forest fire that darn near came close to getting us evacuated. Rubbish burning at a nearby cabin got out of control and we watched smoke and then flames move over the ridge separating us from the spot of origin. Back and forth went fire helicopters dangling canvas fire buckets on a long cable, hovering over a dammed up area on the river as the lowered bucket filled. Then off they went to empty it on the fire. Luckily for us, it was put under control not too close to our own Cottonwood Campground.
Those days before we moved into Gilbert Road were wonderful, sylvan and provide many fond memories. We were certainly glad to finally move in but whenever we passed Cottonwood on the way to Mt. Rainier or some other family or scout campout/hike, we always remembered our time there with happy commentary.
JP 12-20-2011
Sunday, December 18, 2011
Plumas County Campout
Early Fall of 1988, saw the Parrish punks exploring the eastern side of the Sierras in the area of the upper feather River. Portola and the surrounding Plumas national Forest had been my stomping grounds for five years (1971-1975) when I worked at Walton’s Grizzly Lodge Boys Camp. Now we were back in force, all five of us to poke around and explore some of those fabled spots. Daniel had been there earlier, in 1985, when at age five he accompanied Hugh and I on a hunting trip there.
We checked in with the Boy’s Camp and the caretakers, Conrad and Marilyn Lahr, and then headed out on the old Walker Mine Road, past Lake Davis and up to Midway House to set up camp. This open meadow in the midst of National Forest was once a gold rush stage stop. It was halfway between the railroad at Portola and the copper mining operation at Walkermine, hence the name. We set up camp and then drove on to Walkermine, climbing around the old concrete foundations of the reduction plant, marveling at the beautiful aqua stream of water that flowed from the mouth of the main shaft into Grizzly Creek (sadly the color came from the arsenic used in leaching the copper ore from the rock, the stream harbored NO fish), and Dan proved to be a great tourguide from his previous visit.
On the way back to camp, we stopped at the Lovejoy Grave, a small headstone surrounded by split rail fencing, near the road. Legend has it that the grave contains a young girl of the Lovejoy family, homesteaders in the area. She died in the Great Flu epidemic in 1917, after the First World War. T issobering to see this small wooden headstone fenced off and surrounded by thousands of acres of forest. No other trace of the Lovejoy homestead remains.
We also examined the “Witch Tree” a lightning-blasted snag that overhangs the road and whose trunk is spiraled with burn marks. In the night, its bleached outline is spooky to observe, as I have many times when driving the camp trucks to Walkermine on campouts. It is the basis of not a few ghost stories told around the campfire to gullible campers, thankfully none of them true. Wending our way home in the late afternoon, we began dinner preparations to feed the hungry troops.
Cece and Dan shot the little .22 rifle back at camp…both enjoying it greatly. We roasted marshmallows and made Smores over our campfire ring and then tucked in snug cocoons in the tent. It was COLD that night. Hooting owls kept us awake for a while but the glorious sun met us in the morning, setting the ground ablaze as it was covered with a hard frost. Man, was it COLD! Pop was coerced into going out and building a roaring fire, helped by Mountain Man Dan, before the other three explorers would venture from the warm tent to huddle around the blaze. We kept it going quite a while because even with the sun up it was frigid. Those Eastern Sierra fall days are beautiful but CRISP!
Wonderful memories now keep that trip alive for me and maybe in some future year, our grown-up children will go back there with their aged parents and re-create that wonderful time.
JP 12-18-2011
We checked in with the Boy’s Camp and the caretakers, Conrad and Marilyn Lahr, and then headed out on the old Walker Mine Road, past Lake Davis and up to Midway House to set up camp. This open meadow in the midst of National Forest was once a gold rush stage stop. It was halfway between the railroad at Portola and the copper mining operation at Walkermine, hence the name. We set up camp and then drove on to Walkermine, climbing around the old concrete foundations of the reduction plant, marveling at the beautiful aqua stream of water that flowed from the mouth of the main shaft into Grizzly Creek (sadly the color came from the arsenic used in leaching the copper ore from the rock, the stream harbored NO fish), and Dan proved to be a great tourguide from his previous visit.
On the way back to camp, we stopped at the Lovejoy Grave, a small headstone surrounded by split rail fencing, near the road. Legend has it that the grave contains a young girl of the Lovejoy family, homesteaders in the area. She died in the Great Flu epidemic in 1917, after the First World War. T issobering to see this small wooden headstone fenced off and surrounded by thousands of acres of forest. No other trace of the Lovejoy homestead remains.
We also examined the “Witch Tree” a lightning-blasted snag that overhangs the road and whose trunk is spiraled with burn marks. In the night, its bleached outline is spooky to observe, as I have many times when driving the camp trucks to Walkermine on campouts. It is the basis of not a few ghost stories told around the campfire to gullible campers, thankfully none of them true. Wending our way home in the late afternoon, we began dinner preparations to feed the hungry troops.
Cece and Dan shot the little .22 rifle back at camp…both enjoying it greatly. We roasted marshmallows and made Smores over our campfire ring and then tucked in snug cocoons in the tent. It was COLD that night. Hooting owls kept us awake for a while but the glorious sun met us in the morning, setting the ground ablaze as it was covered with a hard frost. Man, was it COLD! Pop was coerced into going out and building a roaring fire, helped by Mountain Man Dan, before the other three explorers would venture from the warm tent to huddle around the blaze. We kept it going quite a while because even with the sun up it was frigid. Those Eastern Sierra fall days are beautiful but CRISP!
Wonderful memories now keep that trip alive for me and maybe in some future year, our grown-up children will go back there with their aged parents and re-create that wonderful time.
JP 12-18-2011
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Perambulating Parrishes
As a married couple, Katie and I have lived in seven different locations in four different states. I guess we have been somewhat nomadic. Of all of our moves, the most memorable to me is the interstate trek from Davis, California to Yakima, Washington in 1991. Our U-Haul truck, pulling the little Honda on a tow dolly, was led by the “command car” Toyota driven by Katie. By virtue of my truck driving experience at summer camps I was the “truck er.”
The cab of the U-haul held me, one child and Jumper the dog. Riding “shotgun” was a rotating honor shared by Dan and Becca. Cece was slurping in a last taste of California at Ronnie Way with loving and doting grandparents. She later told me that she was hoping we’d come to our senses and either leave her there to live or return immediately having realized our mistake. Neither happened and of course her coming to Yakima forged the life-changing event of her meeting Rusty. (She has yet to thank us for that.)
Driving the truck was exciting and the kids loved it…Jumper seemed to enjoy it too. At rest stops the riding order would change and once I was even left with just the dog when Kate had some edible goodies in the car. Driving through the Sacramento Valley was a piece of cake and I was full of fantasies of driving a W.H. Parrish truck in the 1920 heyday of our family’s drayage firm. Even the climb out of Shasta Lake and through Weed was easy and we pulled into Klamath Falls on the evening of July 22nd, my 40th birthday.
Stopping at a Motel 8, Dan and I went for a walk down to see an old derelict Weyerhaeuser Timber Co. steam shovel on the shore of Klamath Lake. Becca and Kate went to the hot tub at the hotel. Kate got a scare as Becca got overheated, and slithered out of the tub, collapsing on the tile edge. Kate got her back to the room and cooled her down thankfully with no adverse effects. Later that night, Jumper was successfully smuggled into the hotel room from the cab of the truck, much to Becca and Dan’s delight.
The next day we drove straight to Yakima, sslloowwllyy pulling up the steep Maryhill Grade out of the Columbia River Gorge. That down and up gave me a few grey hairs and the truck lugged along slowly…but we made it and by late afternoon got to the top of the Toppenish Grade overlooking Toppenish, Wapato and the Gap to Yakima, our future home for the next 16 years.
There was a comical waiting period while we parked the truck nearby and circled the Occidental, Gilbert, Carlson Road loop several times until the Haines had finished moving out the last of their stuff from the barn. Finally, nearing dusk, we entered our new home and began to move a few items in until darkness stopped the progress.
That night there was an incredible thunder and lightning storm, the entire Yakima Valley was ringed with lightning strikes and never ending thunder. All of us were sleeping on the floor in the “sun room” huddled in our sleeping bags, the kids like Velcro between us. It was a rather novel and scary event…sleeping in an old, empty, unfamiliar house in the country, surrounded by no one known to us yet, all strange surroundings, etc. etc. I had visions of ghosts in that old place. Every creak and groan of the settling house woke me up.
Morning brought the sun and joy, fears vanished and happy exploring of the whole acreage, barn, everything. Rooms were claimed: Becca’s had two old dormer closets! Dan’s had a secret escape tunnel…actually the old ice box…literally…as his room had been the pantry in the 1921 vintage house. Cece inherited the beautiful front view. The barn would be a great home for Nellie, which was being transported by auto carrier from Sacramento. All was well, so the perambulating Parishes set down roots in Yakima which lasted the longest of any place we’d ever been.
JP 12-2011
The cab of the U-haul held me, one child and Jumper the dog. Riding “shotgun” was a rotating honor shared by Dan and Becca. Cece was slurping in a last taste of California at Ronnie Way with loving and doting grandparents. She later told me that she was hoping we’d come to our senses and either leave her there to live or return immediately having realized our mistake. Neither happened and of course her coming to Yakima forged the life-changing event of her meeting Rusty. (She has yet to thank us for that.)
Driving the truck was exciting and the kids loved it…Jumper seemed to enjoy it too. At rest stops the riding order would change and once I was even left with just the dog when Kate had some edible goodies in the car. Driving through the Sacramento Valley was a piece of cake and I was full of fantasies of driving a W.H. Parrish truck in the 1920 heyday of our family’s drayage firm. Even the climb out of Shasta Lake and through Weed was easy and we pulled into Klamath Falls on the evening of July 22nd, my 40th birthday.
Stopping at a Motel 8, Dan and I went for a walk down to see an old derelict Weyerhaeuser Timber Co. steam shovel on the shore of Klamath Lake. Becca and Kate went to the hot tub at the hotel. Kate got a scare as Becca got overheated, and slithered out of the tub, collapsing on the tile edge. Kate got her back to the room and cooled her down thankfully with no adverse effects. Later that night, Jumper was successfully smuggled into the hotel room from the cab of the truck, much to Becca and Dan’s delight.
The next day we drove straight to Yakima, sslloowwllyy pulling up the steep Maryhill Grade out of the Columbia River Gorge. That down and up gave me a few grey hairs and the truck lugged along slowly…but we made it and by late afternoon got to the top of the Toppenish Grade overlooking Toppenish, Wapato and the Gap to Yakima, our future home for the next 16 years.
There was a comical waiting period while we parked the truck nearby and circled the Occidental, Gilbert, Carlson Road loop several times until the Haines had finished moving out the last of their stuff from the barn. Finally, nearing dusk, we entered our new home and began to move a few items in until darkness stopped the progress.
That night there was an incredible thunder and lightning storm, the entire Yakima Valley was ringed with lightning strikes and never ending thunder. All of us were sleeping on the floor in the “sun room” huddled in our sleeping bags, the kids like Velcro between us. It was a rather novel and scary event…sleeping in an old, empty, unfamiliar house in the country, surrounded by no one known to us yet, all strange surroundings, etc. etc. I had visions of ghosts in that old place. Every creak and groan of the settling house woke me up.
Morning brought the sun and joy, fears vanished and happy exploring of the whole acreage, barn, everything. Rooms were claimed: Becca’s had two old dormer closets! Dan’s had a secret escape tunnel…actually the old ice box…literally…as his room had been the pantry in the 1921 vintage house. Cece inherited the beautiful front view. The barn would be a great home for Nellie, which was being transported by auto carrier from Sacramento. All was well, so the perambulating Parishes set down roots in Yakima which lasted the longest of any place we’d ever been.
JP 12-2011
Allis Chalmers
Urban farming has always been a conundrum to me. You need space and land to have a farm, right? You need acres and barns and orchards and tractors and animals, correct? That is just not possible on a city lot, I can tell you. Well, we had a sort-of, wanna-be farm in Davis, in 1987-1989, on a very small city lot. We had a tractor…a big orange one.
Steve Barnett, husband of Joanne Wildenrott, a family friend was an inveterate tinkerer. He loved working with machinery and was a mechanic on trucks in his own right. They lived in Davis and one day, when I met him for the first time, I noticed that he had two (TWO) orange Allis Chalmers tractors in his side driveway. Discussion led to these as I have always loved machinery, a hold over from the days when I went with my Dad to work at Kelly brothers Cranes and Rigging in San Jose. Steve had restored these two tractors, a Model C (big) and Model B (smaller) after finding them abandoned in an old quarry in Rocklin, near Sacramento. He complained that they were taking up so much space in his driveway that he could hardly park his truck and car. It did not take long before the idea of the bigger Model C coming to live at our house was finalized. I was ecstatic! A mechanical toy! Having just sold the “Project of the Hour” a 1953 GMC pickup (having bought a new house, we were not in need of cluttery projects streetside on a small lot on a busy street intersection) I was at loose ends for a tinkering project.
One of our new house remodel projects had been building a fence around the south side of the property facing the busy Eighth Street traffic. Privacy and noise barrier were the hoped for results. It took but an hour or two to build a gate into the eastern end of this fence, one large enough for the Allis to get through. The Model C was a big “tricycle type” tractor with large rear wheels and the front supported on two smaller wheels centrally located under the radiator. This was considered a “row crop” set-up.
The day I drove the Allis home was amazing. Driving through most of Davis, west to east, on the main drag, Eighth Street was fun. The stares I got! In an ag community too! Of course hand signals for turning were the norm…no turn signals on a farm tractor. Once home and in the driveway nothing would do but that rides were given to Daniel and Rebecca. I think that Cece was too status-conscious a teenager to want to be seen with her father on that monstrosity but the only picture I have of the tractor has it resting in our backyard (safely behind the fence and scrutiny by friends) with her sitting defiantly on it.
Starting the beast was old-timey simple. Opening the throttle, one inserted the hand crank into the hole in the front of the radiator, engaging the drive pulley. Giving it a whirl or two, careful to keep one’s wrist out of the way in case of a kick back in the opposite direction (and a possible broken wrist), the tractor would turn over with a cough, and then a roar and a belch of blue smoke from the chrome exhaust stack. How many times I would open the gate and back the tractor out, cautiously entering Eighth Street traffic and then turning north on “L” Street to roar down to Alice Street, waving to friends, the Lewises, the Curleys, the McLellans, and often stopping to pick up a kid or two who held on for dear life to me and the left fender, standing on the seat deck. The back and forth up and down Alice Street, turning around at the Roundhouse Park, was always fun. Then I would roar back to our “farm” and slowly drive through the gate, shutting the throttle and stifling the roar of the engine. This was also the drill accomplished on two yearly “Alice Street Picnics” celebrated by those homeowners on the Fourth of July.
Daniel bears a scar to this day on the palm of his hand incurred from falling from the tractor when I allowed it to lurch forward once. Grabbing the left fender (torn, rusty and the only not restored part) to break his fall he cut himself. It was our only mishap during the two years I had possession of the Allis. In 1990, when Carl Larsen GAVE me the 1930 Chevrolet truck back and “Nellie” came to “L” Street, Allis had to go. It went back to Steve who eventually donated it to the UC Davis Antique Mechanics group. Some day I would love to go to their shops and see Allis again, hopefully still as pristine as it was when it gave us so much joy.
JP 12-2011
Steve Barnett, husband of Joanne Wildenrott, a family friend was an inveterate tinkerer. He loved working with machinery and was a mechanic on trucks in his own right. They lived in Davis and one day, when I met him for the first time, I noticed that he had two (TWO) orange Allis Chalmers tractors in his side driveway. Discussion led to these as I have always loved machinery, a hold over from the days when I went with my Dad to work at Kelly brothers Cranes and Rigging in San Jose. Steve had restored these two tractors, a Model C (big) and Model B (smaller) after finding them abandoned in an old quarry in Rocklin, near Sacramento. He complained that they were taking up so much space in his driveway that he could hardly park his truck and car. It did not take long before the idea of the bigger Model C coming to live at our house was finalized. I was ecstatic! A mechanical toy! Having just sold the “Project of the Hour” a 1953 GMC pickup (having bought a new house, we were not in need of cluttery projects streetside on a small lot on a busy street intersection) I was at loose ends for a tinkering project.
One of our new house remodel projects had been building a fence around the south side of the property facing the busy Eighth Street traffic. Privacy and noise barrier were the hoped for results. It took but an hour or two to build a gate into the eastern end of this fence, one large enough for the Allis to get through. The Model C was a big “tricycle type” tractor with large rear wheels and the front supported on two smaller wheels centrally located under the radiator. This was considered a “row crop” set-up.
The day I drove the Allis home was amazing. Driving through most of Davis, west to east, on the main drag, Eighth Street was fun. The stares I got! In an ag community too! Of course hand signals for turning were the norm…no turn signals on a farm tractor. Once home and in the driveway nothing would do but that rides were given to Daniel and Rebecca. I think that Cece was too status-conscious a teenager to want to be seen with her father on that monstrosity but the only picture I have of the tractor has it resting in our backyard (safely behind the fence and scrutiny by friends) with her sitting defiantly on it.
Starting the beast was old-timey simple. Opening the throttle, one inserted the hand crank into the hole in the front of the radiator, engaging the drive pulley. Giving it a whirl or two, careful to keep one’s wrist out of the way in case of a kick back in the opposite direction (and a possible broken wrist), the tractor would turn over with a cough, and then a roar and a belch of blue smoke from the chrome exhaust stack. How many times I would open the gate and back the tractor out, cautiously entering Eighth Street traffic and then turning north on “L” Street to roar down to Alice Street, waving to friends, the Lewises, the Curleys, the McLellans, and often stopping to pick up a kid or two who held on for dear life to me and the left fender, standing on the seat deck. The back and forth up and down Alice Street, turning around at the Roundhouse Park, was always fun. Then I would roar back to our “farm” and slowly drive through the gate, shutting the throttle and stifling the roar of the engine. This was also the drill accomplished on two yearly “Alice Street Picnics” celebrated by those homeowners on the Fourth of July.
Daniel bears a scar to this day on the palm of his hand incurred from falling from the tractor when I allowed it to lurch forward once. Grabbing the left fender (torn, rusty and the only not restored part) to break his fall he cut himself. It was our only mishap during the two years I had possession of the Allis. In 1990, when Carl Larsen GAVE me the 1930 Chevrolet truck back and “Nellie” came to “L” Street, Allis had to go. It went back to Steve who eventually donated it to the UC Davis Antique Mechanics group. Some day I would love to go to their shops and see Allis again, hopefully still as pristine as it was when it gave us so much joy.
JP 12-2011
Monday, November 28, 2011
My Daughter Rebecca
Not so long ago,
a baby in my arms,
squalling for comfort;
falling asleep to the tune
of old sea chanteys.
Then a young girl
nervously showing
4H animals;
becoming a princess,
then a cow on Halloween.
Now, a young woman
bearing new life;
a mother, herself,
and so the wheel of life
revolves full circle.
Soon there will be
a baby in my arms,
squalling for comfort;
falling asleep to the tune
of old sea chanteys.
JP 11-21-2011
a baby in my arms,
squalling for comfort;
falling asleep to the tune
of old sea chanteys.
Then a young girl
nervously showing
4H animals;
becoming a princess,
then a cow on Halloween.
Now, a young woman
bearing new life;
a mother, herself,
and so the wheel of life
revolves full circle.
Soon there will be
a baby in my arms,
squalling for comfort;
falling asleep to the tune
of old sea chanteys.
JP 11-21-2011
Monday, October 24, 2011
Halloween Octobers
California Octobers:
Memories of autumn leaves
crunching under
ghostly feet, witches' brooms
a punk rocker’s boots.
Parents trail hordes
of laughing children.
Washington Octobers:
Frozen nights, snow on
Jack-o-Lanterns.
Princesses and wizards
Dash from warm cars
To rural doorways
And back in a flash.
Oregon Octobers:
Now those tricksters
Treat other callers at
their own doorways.
Time passes by
and old costumes fade
in the cedar chest.
JP 10-24-2011
Memories of autumn leaves
crunching under
ghostly feet, witches' brooms
a punk rocker’s boots.
Parents trail hordes
of laughing children.
Washington Octobers:
Frozen nights, snow on
Jack-o-Lanterns.
Princesses and wizards
Dash from warm cars
To rural doorways
And back in a flash.
Oregon Octobers:
Now those tricksters
Treat other callers at
their own doorways.
Time passes by
and old costumes fade
in the cedar chest.
JP 10-24-2011
Raggedy Andy
I am not sure when the original Raggedy Andy came into Daniel’s possession and, therefore, into our lives. I believe the tattered sample that resides, lovingly preserved, in the cedar chest in the garage, is the third specimen. Probably Grandma and Grandpa Cooper bestowed the first Raggedy on Dan.
From the beginning, the two were inseparable. Everywhere, and I mean EVERYWHERE, little toddler Dan went, Raggedy Andy went also. Thumb in mouth, Raggedy held by an arm or leg in a grubby fist, dragging in the dirt or the lawn, the two explored the realm of our acreage on Sandridge Road, the Forest Service compound at Powell, Idaho, and Sandridge again when we returned to California. Even our subsequent tenure in San Ardo saw Raggedy (probably by now, number two) guarding Dan’s voyages around the teacherage and the Salinas River bottoms. Raggedy was almost always on the pillow next to his sleeping boy at night.
Sometime in Davis after Dan began school, no doubt, Raggedy Andy began to get vacations from the love and subsequent hard usage that his comforting presence brought to our son. I am sure the little doll breathed sigh of relief. Certainly, the specimen in our possession still wears the sewn smile and happy countenance even though one leg is held on with only one shred of fabric and scotch tape. The shortness of this passage in no way is indicative of the influence Raggedy Andy had in Dan’s and subsequently in our lives. The eight or nine year legacy of that little doll lives on.
JP 10-23-2011
From the beginning, the two were inseparable. Everywhere, and I mean EVERYWHERE, little toddler Dan went, Raggedy Andy went also. Thumb in mouth, Raggedy held by an arm or leg in a grubby fist, dragging in the dirt or the lawn, the two explored the realm of our acreage on Sandridge Road, the Forest Service compound at Powell, Idaho, and Sandridge again when we returned to California. Even our subsequent tenure in San Ardo saw Raggedy (probably by now, number two) guarding Dan’s voyages around the teacherage and the Salinas River bottoms. Raggedy was almost always on the pillow next to his sleeping boy at night.
Sometime in Davis after Dan began school, no doubt, Raggedy Andy began to get vacations from the love and subsequent hard usage that his comforting presence brought to our son. I am sure the little doll breathed sigh of relief. Certainly, the specimen in our possession still wears the sewn smile and happy countenance even though one leg is held on with only one shred of fabric and scotch tape. The shortness of this passage in no way is indicative of the influence Raggedy Andy had in Dan’s and subsequently in our lives. The eight or nine year legacy of that little doll lives on.
JP 10-23-2011
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
4H Buckaroo
Among the many activities that our children were involved in, during our years in Yakima, Scouts and 4 H left the most scars upon me, physically and psychologically. Of all those scars, the nightmare of backwards pig riding heads the list.
Becca, in Junior High (1995) developed a desire to raise pigs for her 4H project. I suppose that cute piglets were the impetus but as we all know, cute little piglets grow up to be BIG, ornery pigs! Hers certainly did. That year, she had two pigs, Rose and Lilly. Don’t ask ! How Becca decided on those two very un-porcine names, I will never know.
Sadly, earlier in the Spring, Rose had died from heat stroke, while we were away on a trip. Scott Brewer had been taking care of them but the water dish was overturned and when he found her later it was too late. (Keene had to bring the tractor shovel over to dig the grave in our field.) Anyhow, by the time for the West Valley 4H Fair arrived, Lilly was ready to show. That pig was BIG!
The 1930 Chevy truck was too high off the ground to use but the transportation problem was solved with Russ Daniels using his horse trailer. Vickie and Becca were doing pigs together and Vickie’s pig was in one of the stalls of the trailer. The other was vacant and waiting for Lilly. As Russ backed the trailer up to the pen, I loosened one side of the hog fence to use as a chute to aim Lilly towards the opening. All was in readiness.
Lilly was balky and did not want to leave her muddy, smelly haven, so I got in there and herded her into the chute. I must have cut quite a figure: rubber boots and shorts. Becca also was in her boots and squelching in the mud and ______ in the pen, holding the “gate” of hog wire to keep the chute intact.
Resignedly, Lilly began to trot down the alley towards the trailer when suddenly, right at the lip of the door, she turned around in a flash and bolted back towards her home. Nothing was in her way but ME! Squealing, she shot right at me and reacting too slowly to move, I found myself on top of the pig, hurtling backwards riding like a demented bronco buster. The salient image I have is of Russ Daniels face split into a huge grin as he laughed out loud.
Mercifully, I remember little of that ride except the coarse bristly feeling of the pig’s skin on my thighs. I think I fell off as Lilly bolted back into the pen…at least that is what I recollect. Of course, we had to do it all over again but this time Russ used a piece of plywood as a prod, right behind Lilly so she could not turn around to repeat her antics.
We were victorious in getting her into the trailer and the two pigs made it to the fair grounds. It was a successful show and sale. Lilly was best of show in her class (for meat) because she was so big. Becca was told that one more pound and she would have been over and disqualified. Maybe the exercise did her good.
I am grateful that Rebecca gave up doing pigs after that. I do not think I would have taken well to a career of being a stunt pig rodeo rider. Russ, and others, never let me forget my debut and to this day it brings smiles and laughs to us all.
Becca, in Junior High (1995) developed a desire to raise pigs for her 4H project. I suppose that cute piglets were the impetus but as we all know, cute little piglets grow up to be BIG, ornery pigs! Hers certainly did. That year, she had two pigs, Rose and Lilly. Don’t ask ! How Becca decided on those two very un-porcine names, I will never know.
Sadly, earlier in the Spring, Rose had died from heat stroke, while we were away on a trip. Scott Brewer had been taking care of them but the water dish was overturned and when he found her later it was too late. (Keene had to bring the tractor shovel over to dig the grave in our field.) Anyhow, by the time for the West Valley 4H Fair arrived, Lilly was ready to show. That pig was BIG!
The 1930 Chevy truck was too high off the ground to use but the transportation problem was solved with Russ Daniels using his horse trailer. Vickie and Becca were doing pigs together and Vickie’s pig was in one of the stalls of the trailer. The other was vacant and waiting for Lilly. As Russ backed the trailer up to the pen, I loosened one side of the hog fence to use as a chute to aim Lilly towards the opening. All was in readiness.
Lilly was balky and did not want to leave her muddy, smelly haven, so I got in there and herded her into the chute. I must have cut quite a figure: rubber boots and shorts. Becca also was in her boots and squelching in the mud and ______ in the pen, holding the “gate” of hog wire to keep the chute intact.
Resignedly, Lilly began to trot down the alley towards the trailer when suddenly, right at the lip of the door, she turned around in a flash and bolted back towards her home. Nothing was in her way but ME! Squealing, she shot right at me and reacting too slowly to move, I found myself on top of the pig, hurtling backwards riding like a demented bronco buster. The salient image I have is of Russ Daniels face split into a huge grin as he laughed out loud.
Mercifully, I remember little of that ride except the coarse bristly feeling of the pig’s skin on my thighs. I think I fell off as Lilly bolted back into the pen…at least that is what I recollect. Of course, we had to do it all over again but this time Russ used a piece of plywood as a prod, right behind Lilly so she could not turn around to repeat her antics.
We were victorious in getting her into the trailer and the two pigs made it to the fair grounds. It was a successful show and sale. Lilly was best of show in her class (for meat) because she was so big. Becca was told that one more pound and she would have been over and disqualified. Maybe the exercise did her good.
I am grateful that Rebecca gave up doing pigs after that. I do not think I would have taken well to a career of being a stunt pig rodeo rider. Russ, and others, never let me forget my debut and to this day it brings smiles and laughs to us all.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Kaanapali
Pale pink skies over Molokai
usher in the dawn.
Golden sun-slanted rays
impale wave crests,
cutting through rifts in grey clouds.
Later, mists shroud emerald valleys.
Plumeria scented dusk fills with
water borne laughter, shouts and joy.
Fiery orange, purle, gold sunsets
curtain-call the day.
8-10-2011
usher in the dawn.
Golden sun-slanted rays
impale wave crests,
cutting through rifts in grey clouds.
Later, mists shroud emerald valleys.
Plumeria scented dusk fills with
water borne laughter, shouts and joy.
Fiery orange, purle, gold sunsets
curtain-call the day.
8-10-2011
On Being 60 in Hawaii
Timeless land, its history
measured in milleniums.
Dotted now with mortals, like myself;
finite and brash.
Treading on the decomposing ramparts
of ancient volcanoes.
Fringed by waters as old as this planet.
We are interlopers
Amid profound natural beauty
and grace.
Masters of all this...or just passing
egotistical specks?
8-9-2011
measured in milleniums.
Dotted now with mortals, like myself;
finite and brash.
Treading on the decomposing ramparts
of ancient volcanoes.
Fringed by waters as old as this planet.
We are interlopers
Amid profound natural beauty
and grace.
Masters of all this...or just passing
egotistical specks?
8-9-2011
Rebirth
Young heads, old heads:
angry, scared, relieved.
Now with the chance to change,
rebuild, renew,
live again.
Perhaps this time,
self-esteem or success
will carry them safely
over the old traps,
stumbling blocks:
addiction, violence,
theft, recklessness.
Open windows of chance,
change and growth.
Seen in a smile,
squared shoulders,
confidence. effort.
Now the new
joy of my life-capstone
of my career: to teach,
guide, facilitate, encourage,
smile back, inspire,
and challenge.
My job.
5-7-2011
angry, scared, relieved.
Now with the chance to change,
rebuild, renew,
live again.
Perhaps this time,
self-esteem or success
will carry them safely
over the old traps,
stumbling blocks:
addiction, violence,
theft, recklessness.
Open windows of chance,
change and growth.
Seen in a smile,
squared shoulders,
confidence. effort.
Now the new
joy of my life-capstone
of my career: to teach,
guide, facilitate, encourage,
smile back, inspire,
and challenge.
My job.
5-7-2011
Daughters
Sacred vessels of life,
laughter,
joy
and love.
Miniatures, in the beginning
of mothers,
aunts,
grandmothers before.
Capturing thier father's heart.
Growing into young women;
strong,
beautiful,
resolute of heart.
Charged with new life:
giving to the future,
molding reason from doubt,
purpose for living.
Raison d'etre of my time on this earth.
3-20-2011
laughter,
joy
and love.
Miniatures, in the beginning
of mothers,
aunts,
grandmothers before.
Capturing thier father's heart.
Growing into young women;
strong,
beautiful,
resolute of heart.
Charged with new life:
giving to the future,
molding reason from doubt,
purpose for living.
Raison d'etre of my time on this earth.
3-20-2011
Monday, February 28, 2011
Cascades Benediction
Brown grasses, battered by winter storms,
wave gently in the light breeze.
Skeleton snags and curved, deformed firs
ignored by the harvesters,
Lonely tenants of this land.
Gun metal clouds fly by at furious rates.
Sun breaks illuminate snow patches
on mountain ridges to the east.
Then mist rides in, obscuring vision.
The hum of a far-off airplane intrudes softly.
I stand in the midst of a logged-off knoll,
now meadow. Decaying stumps, forgotten logs
left lying promiscuously.
The old road is awash in winter snow melt and
runoff from hidden springs.
The present solemn stillness belies
once furious activity, the
noisesome denuding of this place.
What line, drawn in the dirt as with a knife,
stopped the hungry saws?
Now, silent scars recede into green coverings.
Nature's bandages binding man-inflicted
wounds of greed and coveting.
Stately moss-covered sentinels guard edges
of the silent plain.
Sun-dappled pockets of light seem to
bestow forgiveness.
Yet far off, the muted growl
of a chain saw is heard,
gouging new wounds.
JP 2-20-2011
wave gently in the light breeze.
Skeleton snags and curved, deformed firs
ignored by the harvesters,
Lonely tenants of this land.
Gun metal clouds fly by at furious rates.
Sun breaks illuminate snow patches
on mountain ridges to the east.
Then mist rides in, obscuring vision.
The hum of a far-off airplane intrudes softly.
I stand in the midst of a logged-off knoll,
now meadow. Decaying stumps, forgotten logs
left lying promiscuously.
The old road is awash in winter snow melt and
runoff from hidden springs.
The present solemn stillness belies
once furious activity, the
noisesome denuding of this place.
What line, drawn in the dirt as with a knife,
stopped the hungry saws?
Now, silent scars recede into green coverings.
Nature's bandages binding man-inflicted
wounds of greed and coveting.
Stately moss-covered sentinels guard edges
of the silent plain.
Sun-dappled pockets of light seem to
bestow forgiveness.
Yet far off, the muted growl
of a chain saw is heard,
gouging new wounds.
JP 2-20-2011
Mortality
Lights flashing, monitors,
blood pressure cuff.
Trapped in a bed with rails.
Nightgown with no rear!
How has it come to this?
Can this be all there is?
End of life ?
Or beginning of invalidism?
Will much be the same,
or all be different?
Extreme thoughts, these.
But the locale begets
such fears and truths.
It is an abrupt halt
in my daily march of time.
Images on a screen:
views of veins and capillaries,
sounds of blood roaring
on the speakers of the
Ultrasound machine.
The measure of my living,
still breathing, going onward.
Thankfully.
Gratitude abounds amid
fervent prayers and breaths.
Surrounded by love, caring,
laughter at my image.
That is a true reward andI
resolve to be more careful,
intentional with life.
JP 1-15-2011
blood pressure cuff.
Trapped in a bed with rails.
Nightgown with no rear!
How has it come to this?
Can this be all there is?
End of life ?
Or beginning of invalidism?
Will much be the same,
or all be different?
Extreme thoughts, these.
But the locale begets
such fears and truths.
It is an abrupt halt
in my daily march of time.
Images on a screen:
views of veins and capillaries,
sounds of blood roaring
on the speakers of the
Ultrasound machine.
The measure of my living,
still breathing, going onward.
Thankfully.
Gratitude abounds amid
fervent prayers and breaths.
Surrounded by love, caring,
laughter at my image.
That is a true reward andI
resolve to be more careful,
intentional with life.
JP 1-15-2011
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