Blessed Event

I know, I know, I'm supposed to be writing about whether or not I actually made it to Baja this spring, and I was, I really was! Yesterday morning I was inspired anew, wrote quite a bit, and had planned to finish the post in the evening, after my Little Miss Muffet lunch of curds and whey*.  But I was unfairly railroaded. By this:

If you've been paying close attention, you'll know that this summer, in additional to my usual opera flutist duties, I'm moonlighting here.  But what may not be apparent is that the cow in the idyllic alpine photo above is in labor.  It was supposed to be cold and rainy last night (it was!) with up to a foot of snow in the mountains.  Good thing I took my mountain ride a few days ago, because even then, it looked like this:

And just a few weeks ago, the calf barn looked like this:

Dawn. Time to milk the cows. In the.... SNOW?

But I digress.  Point being, it sure would be nice for Clara's sake if she were to bring a calf into this world under a roof.  Thankfully, we had just that sort of place in mind for her. And we got her there without a minute to spare!

Because only moments later, a tiny cloven hoof began to emerge. And then another. And then the startled face of a being leaving one world and entering the next.

Welcome, Little One!

Oh, auspicious day! It's a heifer**!  Clara tended to her charge like only an experienced mama would, cooing in her gentle bovine way throughout the process.

Good job, Clara!

We decided to give mama and calf some quiet time. Besides, we needed to fetch some basic necessities for these two for the night. After all that, Clara must be hungry and thirsty.  When we returned there was a surprise waiting for us...

Twins!

*Not even kidding.  Leftover cheese curds + salt + pepper + garlic scapes + drizzle of olive oil = the lunch of cheese apprentice champions. They are especially satisfying after spending the entire morning, stomach growling, stirring those curds. These are the sorts of things cheese apprentices do. And eat.  And? The next day, once the curds have knit together, you can slice the loaf, fry the slice, and top it with roasted garlic scape pesto and roasted cherry tomatoes. Yep. You can.

**That's code for more milk. Which is code for more cheese!

No Excuses. Well, yeah, some excuses. (A Number of Occasional Other Matters)

If you’ve been following my Sort Of Sabbatical Phase One By The Day Posts, you probably decided long ago that I finally succumbed to the spectacularly distracting Pacific Coast Highway views and crashed the Ducati into sparkling azure sea.

I didn’t.

So that's good.

Today I thought, as a writing exercise, I’d relate the long list of excuses that brought my posting to a halt.   Do enjoy!

My computer has been acting suspiciously since my return from Sort of Sabbatical Phase One.  Specifically, it has been giving me error messages when I back up my data.  I have, mostly, been successfully ignoring this problem (Me - 1, Computer - 0!), except for the minor side effect that I am not particularly motivated to work on my photographs if there’s a decent possibility I might lose all my work.  Surely you understand.

Then I went on Sort of Sabbatical Phase Two.  Of course I took photos. You’ll see them later.

Then I came back.*  My computer did not fix itself in my absence.  Harrumph. (Computer - 1, Me - 0) After some time-consuming yet unsuccessful attempts to rectify the problem, I went back to my original plan, namely, ignoring the problem.  Not surprisingly, this tactic brought on those same pesky minor side effects.

Then I went on Sort of Sabbatical: Epilogue.  Of course I took photos.  You’ll see them later.

Then I was sequestered, pretty much without internet or phone, for a week in a tiny town in northern New Mexico.  I lived in a retrofitted Airstream trailer, complete with kitchen and farm animals.  I didn’t eat any of the farm animals, but I did  have some two-thumbs-up tapas at La Boca in Santa Fe.  Overall, the week was fantastically hilarious.

It's not often I open an Airstream trailer door.  Even less often do I find a horse begging for a snack on the other side of said door.

Do I have to say that by the time I finally made my way back to Tucson, my computer still wouldn’t back up correctly?**  Heal thyself! (Please?)

Then there was the matter of my last post.  I was, for a time, rather distracted by it all.   Recently, I saw a dead dove in the middle of the street.  Its body was crushed, with one delicate wing miraculously still reaching skyward.  I wish I had taken a photo of it.  Because that’s exactly what it feels like to be run over by a bus.  I know, because just as surely as Julia was betrayed by Winston,*** I was thrown under the bus in a manner so clever I almost admire it, by someone who was (supposedly) my greatest ally.  Pfft.  Not exactly the stuff of superheroes.

Then it was September.  It’s generally a lovely month. I ease myself gently back into work, while enjoying all the local day rides I haven’t seen since May. Except this September I was leisurely repairing the Ducati in time for a track day at the end of the month.  (You’ll find out why the Ducati needed repairs round about, oh, Sort of Sabbatical Phase One Day 25, give or take.)  Leisurely making repairs?  More along the lines of “leisurely inflicting further damage.”  No, I didn’t have it fixed in time for the track day.  I still don’t have it fixed.

Then I decided perhaps it would be more efficient to drive 26 hours to retrieve my Kawasaki, which had been residing in TX, than to fix the Ducati.

Then there was the short but all consuming project of my very first paid food photography gig.  I was actually paid (still waiting on the check, to be honest) to cook and photograph the process of making a certain risotto recipe****. I borrowed a decent camera, turned my little house into a photo studio, cleaned my stove, and took the requested five specific photographs.  If I’m lucky, it’ll boil down to minimum wage.  But it was amusing, and I got to eat a great deal of risotto over the next few days.

The ingredients. And a cookbook.  Although I didn't actually use a recipe from this book.  Do you suppose the Risotto page would lie nicely in the middle of the book like this?  Of course not.  Hurrah for color copiers and tape.

It's quite a trick to pour broth AND stir AND release the camera shutter with your toes or teeth. (I know about self-timers.  Couldn't use it. Long Story.)  The lighting on shiny pans can be rather problematic.  After spending hours getting it right, the sun had moved into the kitchen window. Argh.

Then October hit me like a 12" All-Clad Saute Pan.  I’m still standing here blinking stupidly from the how-did-I-not-see-this-coming avalanche of work.  Speaking of side effects, however, it is nice to finally have some paychecks rolling in.

And my last excuse?  I have a new friend in my life!  Remember this sad day?  Well, I’ve been dog-less and dog-longing ever since.  (No sense in getting a dog before the Sort of Sabbatical).

“Miss Molly” arrives and my heart sings!

My nine year old darling came from Southern Arizona Beagle Rescue.

There she is! All 42 pounds of her!  She's already discovered that I'm immune to the sad brown eyes trick. (Boo!)  But I like to walk. (Yay!)

Hard to say who is happier.  What a lovely, lovely conundrum.

There.   No more excuses. Except neither the computer nor the Ducati work yet. And now I have to borrow a proper camera to get a proper beagle portrait.

*By that I mean I continued on to UT.  To work.  A tiny bit.  And ride more.
** Yes, I should just buy a new one.  Or at least reinstall the OS to rule that out as the problem. (I really don't think it is.)  But the amount of work (and frustration) required by either of those things makes Ducati repair seem like fun.
*** "Do it to Julia!" he cries, when faced with his greatest fear, in George Orwell's 1984.  To be fair, Julia also betrayed Winston in Room 101, we just have fewer details. I still hold some respect for both Julia and Winston, though, based on their circumstances and the final scene where they actually own up to it.
****Shrimp, chile, pine nuts, carrots, and black olives?  Really?  I suppose I wasn't paid to approve of the recipe, just to make and photograph it.  What a silly use of some expensive ingredients.

I Am Eating a Frozen Dinner* (An Occasional Other Matter)

And not the sort I make myself.  Hypo-glycemics do not have the luxury of going off feed, even though eating is the last thing I feel like doing.

I have been deeply, fundamentally hurt by three people in my inner circle in as many months, and my chain has officially come off the sprockets. (I haven't told you the Ducati chain story yet, so you don't get the reference, although you probably do get the point.)

This summer, as I chipped away at my self-professed off-road phobia on my XT, I found myself marveling at this little motorcycle. Li’l Burro!  So steady and surefooted! There’s nothing it can’t do!  Li’l Burro! The machine for the apocalypse!  Whenever I came across a challenge in the road, I’d steel myself, ask “What would Li’l Burro do?,” and ride on, ride up, ride over.  The possible, redefined!

Now, as I sit here, mortally wounded, staring down my “Organic Four Cheese Stone Baked Pizza”, I ask myself once again, “What Would Li’l Burro Do?"




Ride on, ride up, ride over.

*Not that there’s anything wrong with that.  It’s just not my way.

Another Occasional Other Matter from the Sky – Eclipse 2012

I am in yoga class and what began as a barely perceptible pull on my consciousness this morning is fast becoming as urgent as the need for air.  I am inexplicably swept away by the naive idea that somehow, witnessing the sun slowly being extinguished by the moon’s shadow will somehow shed light on those things that might be best extinguished from my own life.  But this magic spell, in which I have total confidence, won’t work unless I can view the eclipse in solitude.  The fact that this is a near logistical impossibility sends me into a panic as I lie, outwardly quiet, with mind whirling ever further from Nirvana, in shavasana, at the end of class.   All the obvious viewing places are just that. Obvious.  Gates Pass, Tumamoc Hill, Saguaro National Park West and the eclipse party at the Food Truck Roundup will be filled with the celebratory oohing and ahhing of the masses.  Reality forces me to relinquish the romantic ideas of riding my motorcycle out to the edge of the earth or hiking to the top a mountain, since I have no idea exactly what sort of darkness the setting of an eclipsed sun will bring.

The idea of it all ferments in my brain for much of the afternoon, as I consider and discard option after option.  What I need is a topographic map and a chart indicating the position of the setting sun, along with a bit of luck.  Captain Google provides the first two items, and I make Brown Mountain my target.  I hope it’s enough off the beaten path, and hot enough out that most sane souls will not want make the physical effort of even this small climb, yet I know the trail to be short enough that impending dusk of any sort probably won’t  endanger my descent.

By the time I have a plan, there is barely enough time to enact it.  With great purpose I fly, acquiring the necessary solar viewing glasses, and tossing items in my Camelbak:  sunscreen (oh, the irony!), water, hat, granola bar (my snack of last resort), head lamp (just in case) and, as an afterthought, my camera and tripod, although I have no idea how to use the former in this unique situation, and the latter self-destructed into a number of tiny pieces in my top box on a ride a couple of months ago.   I’m off, dodging trains and putting the Corolla through its paces up and over Gates pass, wincing as I am reminded it’s no Ducati.

Remarkably, I beat the traffic over the pass, and find myself at my vantage point utterly alone.  I can’t believe no one else thought of this.  I’m pleased to be ahead of schedule, because it allows me time to sort through the puzzle of the tripod pieces, figure out that I can hold the solar viewing glasses in front of my camera lens, and take a stab at a few camera settings before the cosmic event sets forth.

I wait.  The sun hovers in the sky, searingly unrepentant.  The hot breeze does not refresh.  I fidget.  Two bees orbit each other like noisy sub-atomic particles.  I look at my watch.  In the distance I hear a motorcycle accelerating through the turns of McCain Loop Road, and in a mix of fellowship and covetous desire, I sigh.

My mind knows it’s simply a specific arrangement of planetary bodies, and, according to sock drawer statistics, probably no more unlikely than any other.   Nevertheless, I can not seem to let go of my pagan expectations.



I want to reflect on life, but I’m struggling with my camera instead.  It’s difficult to make the necessary fine adjustments with the tripod with one hand, while holding the solar glasses in front of the lens with the other.  The manual focus won’t hold my selection, so my photos keep coming out blurry, and I’m fighting with the malfunctioning jog dial, which I can not bring myself to pay to have repaired again, since the hate side of my camera love-hate relationship is quickly, well, eclipsing the love side.   The thin film of plastic that is the solar viewing glasses creates an unwelcome sense of remove, as if I was watching the entire event on television.  Curiosity is a powerful phenomenon, and as if to prove the point, I steal an unprotected glimpse.   My light sensitive eyes can only bear the blaze for a fraction of a second, not even long enough to register what is happening.  Instead, the crescent sun is recorded only as a ghost image burned upon my retina.   Surprisingly, without the filter, and without foolish furtive glances directly at the fireball itself, the only clue of the unusual event at all is the subtle coolness of a cloud passing over the sun.  Except, of course, there are no clouds. 



As my camera battery runs down, I feel wholly unenlightened. I trudge down the hill and miss my chance at perhaps the best shot of all – the eclipsed sun against the backdrop of the mountainous horizon.  I try to find a lesson, an allegory, in the moment.  There are so many to choose from. Light follows darkness.  Perhaps change needn’t be so scary.  But my heart will have none of it.  There are no answers, there is no clarity, and I feel robbed of my epiphany. I try to block out the reality I’ve known all along: life is not altered by the path of the moon, the power for change lies solely within myself.

And if I step on it, I can get to the Food Truck Roundup before it disbands.

Lightening Strikes Twice

This week I was accused, by more than one individual, of being… well, the sort of person I wish I was.  Huh.  I found that to be a bit of a head scratcher.

Some years ago, when I decided I wanted to join the brethren of two wheeled riders, almost no one in the world supported me.  Rather, my desire was met with a fierce and enduring resistance on nearly every front.  One person, someone I didn’t know particularly well, took the trouble to mail me a card, cheering me on when almost no one else would.  I keep that card under my motorcycle seat, in the little pocket meant for the necessary insurance and registration papers, as a talisman of sorts.

Today, I’m adding something else to that spot.  Sorting through the daily mail, I found yet another notice informing me I have to reapply for a job I’ve had for almost a decade, and an envelope with photos of me on the Ducati, accompanied by a handwritten letter and quotation so deadly accurate, my voice cracked as I read it aloud in the silent gloom of my house, shuttered against the heat of the day.  How can someone I hardly know possibly see so deeply into my heart?

 

It feels almost mystical to have these thunderbolts coming, not from those closest to me, but from people and places far and wide.  Would that I could be the person some people think I am!

Occasional Other Matters: Thunderbolts and a Random Act

Ever have one of those weeks when the thunderbolts seem to hit about every ten minutes?  Unexpected unpleasant surprises, not of the very highest magnitude, but forceful enough to knock you off your feet momentarily.  Umph!  When the symphony office said a mysterious package addressed to me had arrived, it only made sense to don my helmet and prepare for some sort of explosion.  What a pleasant surprise to find I’d been an innocent victim of a random act of kindness instead!

From someone I haven't seen in over 20 years:  a pendant as bespeckled as my dearly departed Dalmatian.

Grief and Gratitude

It’s been a week since my polka-dotted hero, out-runner of greyhounds, subject of many  spontaneously and lovingly re-written opera arias,  and celebrated MMM mascot, took her final journey.  The collective embrace from all of you - here, on Facebook, in person, via text message, by phone, on internet forums, through the good old USPS - has been humbling.  And enormous.  You shared your stories, you understood the depth of my grief, you offered comfort. I heard from people who knew (and loved! - how that touched me!) her, people who knew me, and people I’ve never met at all.   Some of you cried your own tears for her, and so many of you recognized the true nature of the what a pet-owner bond can be, and the deep sorrow that accompanies the loss of life’s most faithful companion.  How it comforts me to know you understand!  All your words of kindness kept her alive for me those first few impossible days.

I know from you and from my own experiences that time will eventually heal, but this week it has been my enemy.  Each day that passes takes her one more day further away from me.  So, as the flowers on her little shrine wilt, I can’t say I’m feeling any better yet.  But I know I will, and that is enough for now.  So many times in life, we are asked to bear the unbearable, and so many have been asked to bear much more than I ever have.  Yet somehow we do.  We do!  It is possible, in no small part, because of the good people around us.  I thank you, dear friends and readers, deeply.  Your understanding and compassionate condolences have eased my way on this challenging journey of the heart.

The Final Journey (A Significant Other Matter)

 


I met her on the examining table of the pet hospital I used to work at a lifetime ago.  You met her briefly here, again here, and watched her in a little mischief here. I marveled at the sweetness of her disposition that day in 1998, and later, after I adopted her, at her remarkable emotional sensitivity.  I still do.

She saw me through some tough times – my divorce, bouts of tool throwing, and the agony that was my life during 2009-2010 (a little of which I told you about, most of which I did not.)

I saw her through her own tough times, too.  A cancer scare involving surgery in 2009, surgery, pins and a cast in 2002 (an injury specific to racing greyhounds - we were so proud!),  and, in a bizarre coincidence, the loss of that same leg to cancer in 2010.  She held up during her challenges much better than I ever have.

Freckles has a star power unlike that I’ve ever seen.  Crowds cheered her as she honored the loss of her leg in the 2010 Tucson Day of the Dead Celebration.  In 2004, she co-starred in a photo shoot for the Muscular Dystrophy Association's "Fill the Boot" fundraising campaign.  She got the job done in half the time it took the "professional" Dalmatian used in years prior.  It’s rare that I don’t hear whispers as she dances down the street,  “Look!  A Dalmatian!”  People are often so bedazzled by her spots and sweetness that they completely miss the fact she’s down one leg.  And when they do pick up on this, they are always inspired and touched by her agility and spunk.  Jaws drop when people learn that this active young pup is really 15 years old.  Walking her feels like community service -  she brings so much inspiration and joy to all the people whose paths she crosses.

One day this week, during our daily “morning games,” I felt a mass in her belly.  An ultrasound told me what I already knew.  She doesn’t know it yet, but this will be her end.  There really isn’t much to be done, and the medical details are purely academic at this point.  I don’t know how long it will take.  She doesn’t have any symptoms yet, and although it is unlikely related to the prior cancer that took her leg, that tumor moved so fast, it doubled the size of her leg in less than a week.   Although she usually spends her summers in the custody of her “Daddy,” this year she’s coming to Utah with me.  I don’t know where we’ll live, and I don’t know how I’ll afford not living in the free apartment usually provided to me, but we’ll find a way.

And so, I will be with her as she embarks on her final journey.  I suspect, in that strange twist of fate I've experienced before, it will be the dying who comforts the living.

I wrote this post on a quiet afternoon in mid May, with Freckles napping by my side.  She passed peacefully  on August 19, at the age of 15 and a half, as we lay quietly spooning, just two days after our arduous return to Tucson.  A spotted vase of flowers now marks her window look out perch.  In one of her final gifts to me, she, who could not walk in her last days, summoned her strength to hop across the house to greet me at the door.  My grief is unbearable, and my gratitude for having had her in my life overflows. 

Occasional Other Matters: Two Legged Adventure (Mount Wrightson)

If not for my inability to ride after dark, this day most definitely would have included my motorcycle. Alas a day in late fall is not long enough to comfortably confine all these activities to the daylight hours.

The activities, in order of appearance:

Drive to Madera Canyon, begrudgingly in the car.  Prior moto trip to the canyon discussed here.

Climb Mount Wrightson, the steep way up, the long way down.  (I know, I know...  "Stop.  Think.  There must be a harder way.")
Stats:
Ascend Old Baldy Trail - 5.4 miles to the top, over 4000 ft elevation gain.  Hear me roar, I made it to the peak in 2 hours, 45 minutes!
Descend Super Trail - 8.2 miles back to the trail head.  The prettier of the two trails, in my opinion.  Solve geocache puzzle at Josphine's Saddle.

Find actual geocache.

Drive home.  Yep, it got dark before I got home.  Good call on taking the car. 

Photographic evidence:


Bellows spring was frozen.

A teeny tiny perfect autumn leaf as opposed to the gigantic enormous perfect fall leaf I'm holding in this post.

My spaghetti squash sun-dried tomato herb muffin (savory, not sweet) contemplates the view at Baldy Saddle.  Who says you can't put spaghetti squash in muffins or bread?  If you can use zucchini, why not?  (Recipes still under development, but I'm getting darn close...)

Arrival at the summit!  The frozen spring surely tipped you off:  It's cold!  I wore leggings, hiking pants, silk underlayer, turtle neck, "soft shell" jacket, gloves and hat, and didn't find myself wanting to remove any layers at any time.  I even wore my boots, which I never do.  I'm a confirmed Teva hiker, regardless of terrain, since boots invariably leave my toes all bruised.  Turns out this latest pair of boots is no exception.  Maybe some day I'll get hiking boots that fit correctly, but I'm not into buying pair after pair, only to find out these too don't suit my strange (narrow at the heel, wide at the ball) feet.  I can ride in them without a problem, I just can't hike in them.

The summit offered gorgeous vistas in each direction, and none of my pictures really captured them.  Here's a photo from the top anyway.

Making my way back down via the Super Trail.

A commemorative sign at Josphine's saddle.  On the date shown (purely by coincidence I was hiking on the anniversary of the tragedy), a boy scout troop camping and hiking in the area was caught in a freak snowstorm that dumped several feet of snow in the Santa Ritas.  Three boys died.  No one hikes Mt. Wrightson without checking the weather anymore.  This sign is one of five I needed to locate to solve a puzzle that would yield the coordinates of the geocache I was hunting.

A pretty spot not too far from my geocache find.  (The geocache itself was not on the trail, but further down Madera Canyon.)

 

The moon rises over the Santa Ritas.  Good night moon.  Good night mountains.  How lucky I was to have this day!

A Significant "Other Matter"

You DID notice the "Just Divorced" sign, didn't you? The end of a marriage is cataclysmic for those involved, and I wasn't exactly hamming it up with the judge this morning at the courthouse, but humor really IS good medicine. I think I'll go riding again tomorrow.

Bonus: A wildlife encounter at my usual turnaround point at the top of the mountain -I was surrounded! We enjoyed each others' company for a good 10 minutes before they went on their merry way. It's a shame I was shooting into the sun.

Delightful Contraband!

I can NOT believe my good fortune! I am planting some trees today, and a really special tree just came into my world here in Armory Park, Tucson. I have been tossing around the idea of putting some sort of deciduous tree in my back yard. Something to let the sun in during winter, give me shade in the summer. Such a tree will likely have to be watered, and I'm not known to be very reliable in this regard. I'm hoping to have laundry facilities soon, and the only way I can deal with the waste water will be to use it as grey water, rather than tapping into my sewer (not possible with my current, 1916-old house set up.) But it's the perfect solution for watering a tree. And, I figured, if I am actually going to WATER something, it should return the favor in the form of food. Maybe an almond, maybe a fig...

Well today I happened to be in the right place at the right time, and I acquired a little Black Mission fig tree. This is not just ANY fig tree. It's a "Kino" fig tree from the Kino Heritage Fruit Tree Project. Coincidentally, I had read about the project just a few days ago. The Arizona Sonoran Desert Museum, The Desert Survivors Nursery and an organization called Native Seeds/SEARCH have joined together to identify, preserve and propagate direct descendants of fruit trees brought to this area by Spanish Missionaries centuries ago. The name Kino refers to Father Eusebio Kino (1645-1711), a Jesuit missionary and explorer who made about 40 expeditions to AZ. These trees will be used to replant ancient orchards at The Tucson Origins Heritage Park, and the Tumacacori National Historic Park. The trees (fig, apricot, pear, quince, pecan, walnut, pomegranate...) are not, at this time, available to the general public. Unless you're lucky enough to be me! (I've been sworn to secrecy regarding my source.) As tiny as the tree is now, I'm told it might even have a few figs this summer. My glee is uncontainable! What is it that makes this living link to the past so special? I hope I can manage to be a good custodian to this wonderful tree!

Update May 30, 2019
I must admit, that tree did not survive. But I did acquire two others a few years back.
And? Exquisite. Everything a fig should be.

A Heartfelt Thanks to All...

who joined me in the fun of my backyard contest. I'm sorry to report that I didn't win, but I must say, the overwhelming support was worth more to me than any backyard! Here are the finalists, if you're curious. All worthy indeed! (I'm guessing the link will only be active for a week or so.)
http://www.azstarnet.com/sn/athome/254996

Now it's time for one of those "occasional other matters." Here I am, sporting the latest in fashionable motorcycle apparel.