What To Read Next

Book recommendations always perk my interest, so I’m sharing favorites from 2023 here with ya’ll. I read (listened to) only thirty-one this year. But I did have some memorable ones I’d highly suggest.

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Number one on a list of great reading has to be How to Keep House While Drowning by KC Davis.  A gentle approach to cleaning and organizing as well as self care. I’ll be reading this at least once a year for the rest of my life. 

Coming in at number two: Lovely War by Julie Berry (intertwined WWI love stories told by the Gods, excellent writing, compelling.)

Third best: The Midnight Library by Matt Haig (Woman tries on different lives searching for a better one)

Brandon Sanderson peppered my list more than I’d have thought. It’s great writing that I can share with my 12 year old grand daughter, but still intelligent and engaging. 

• Yumi and the Nightmare Painter by Brandon Sanderson (two people “trade places” and conquer a mutual enemy)
• The Emperor’s Soul by Brandon Sanderson (a forger creates a new soul for an emperor and creates many other intrigues as well)
• Tress of the Emerald Sea by Brandon Sanderson (fun female pirate story set in a weird world)
• The Sunlit Man by Brandon Sanderson (fast moving jump into more of the amazing omniverse)

Two out of a series of three sci-fi books caught my attention. The third one had a narration shift that my head couldn’t get around, so I didn’t listen to the third one. I might still hard copy read it to come full circle on the storyline. 

• Sleeping Giants by Sylvian Neuvel (Parts of a 3000 yr old giant robot discovered, intrigue and drama ensue, part 1 of 3 books)
• Waking Gods by Sylvian Neuvel (Second installment of giant robot story, more robots show up)

For a dose of reality or history these hit hard and made a dent in my psyche. 

• No Promises in the Wind by Irene Hunt (adventures and travails of young boys leaving home during the depression)
• A Brilliant Night of Stars and Ice by Rebecca Connolly (historical fiction, the Carpathia rescue of Titanic survivors)
• The Elephant Whisperer by Lawrence Anthony (non-fiction account of an African nature preserve and its elephants)
• The Slow March of Light by Heather B. Moore (Bob Inama in East Berlin prison based on actual events/fiction, good read)

Reading recommended by grandkids or appropriate to read aloud to children.

• Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm by Kate Douglas Wiggin (a girls travails when she moves in with her spinster aunts, written before Anne of Green Gables)
• Wish by Barbara O’Connor (sweet story of a 10 year old girl and her wish for a real family)
• The Green Door by Stefan Gannon (Sweet tales of two children growing up midcentury England)
• Bud, Not Buddy by Christopher Paul Curtis (a depression era orphan searches for his dad, surprise twist)

Miscellaneous reads very deserving of attention, book clubs, or getting lost in another time and place. 

• Lessons in Chemistry by Bonnie Garmus (1950s female chemist becomes a TV chef on her way to credibility) The book will be better than anything on streaming services. 
• Unsheltered by Barbara Kingsolver (two stories of families on the same property in a town 100 years apart)
• Book Woman’s Daughter by Kim Michelle Richardson (sequel to mountain librarian, beautiful descriptive writing)
• Remarkably Bright Creatures by Shelby Van Pelt (young man searches for family in a quirky small town; Octopus helps)
• The Lonely Hearts Book Club by Lucy Gilmore (surprising friendships among quirky characters centered around a grouch)
• The Nature of Fragile Things by Susan Meissner (the results of a bigamist’s life, told from one wife’s perspective)

If you have any books you’d recommend, I’d love to hear about them. 

Here’s wishing you another wonderful year of quality time spent with words.  

Where Ordinary Excels

Out of 55 books I read during 2022 I highly recommend these seven. 

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Project Hail Mary by Andy Weir (writer of The Martian) gets the science right in sci-fi and makes it understandable to non-science pleebs like me. A hopeful, edge of your seat, astounding work of art featuring the best of humanity. 

The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry by Gabrielle Zevin. Setting, a bookstore. What could possibly be wrong with this story. Not a thing. The movie hugs you, the book embraces your soul. 

Where the Crawdads Sing by Delia Owens, yes the one the movie is based on. Of course, the book is better, with descriptive text that places you in the boat, outside the shack, on top of the tower and inside hearts. 

Mistborn by Brandon Sanderson. My first ever foray into Sanderson did not disappoint. Yes, I read the sequels. No, I have not read the latest. Yes, I will read more. If you know, you know. If you don’t then find out. 

Fresh Water for Flowers by Valerie Perrin. You’ll need to settle in for a lanquid wander through this sad, but lovely, story of redemption. Stunning writing. 

Anxious People by Fredrik Backman (author of A Man Called Ove) challenges your inner sleuth while introducing you to quirky characters and odd situations, and providing a surprise ending. 

The Day the World Came to Town by Jim Defede offers a positive outcome from a horrific event. If your hope is waning, this book provides an excellent booster.  

Forgotten Trains

It’s curious how life circles around.

The chemotherapy treatment my mother has been receiving since her midsummer surgery has ravaged this once vibrant woman. Physically she’s as frail as a cricket’s wing. Mentally she’s as scrambled and unpredictable as a toddler. Whether that’s the effects of the chemo, her stroke from years ago, the cancer, dementia, or a combination of them all, no one knows. It little matters.

As a young girl my mother used to let me sit beside her on the piano bench as she played music from My Picture book of Songs  with its charming drawings and seasonal themes. We sang of big black choo choo trains, puppies next door, aeroplanes flying, whirly, twirly leaves and dozens of other sweet topics. That song book still exists sans the yellow cover, having miraculously survived a housefire and six other children loving its pages with pencil and crayon. The cellophane tape mom had carefully applied now scars the ragged-edged pages.

I wrote of my love for and experience with this book and its effect on my life, my children’s lives and my grandchildren’s lives several years ago. What I’d never conceived of happening with this book occurred a couple weeks ago as I sat on the front porch with my mother.

The thermometer barely tapped the seventy degree mark, and a light breeze wandered across the porch. That slight wind carried the sound of a train whistle. That was unusual. Sure, there are tracks that run alongside the state highway half a mile away, but I’d never seen a train in all the times I’d visited, let alone heard one. I remarked on that. Then I said, “That reminds me of the train song we used to sing all the time when I was little.”

Mom didn’t remember the train song.

And so, I sang it to her.

“Choo choo choo, what’s coming down the track?

Choo choo choo, it’s something big and black.

See it steaming as it chugs along.

Hear it ringing as it says ding dong.

Choo choo choo there it goes again.

Choo choo choo choo choo choo choo,

It’s a big black train.

Wooooohooo, wooooohooo,

It’s a big black train.”

She hummed along and sang a word or maybe two.

Within those brief words and notes, mother and daughter switched roles.

We enjoyed a few more minutes on the porch swing in silence, taking in the view of the mountains, and an occasional hawk circling. Lulu the Wonder Cat wandered among our legs, thought about jumping onto Mom’s lap, thought better of it.

Inside, Mom surprisingly knew right where to find that old songbook. She sat at her puzzle table while I sat at the piano to play those old songs for her. She hummed along to some of them. I couldn’t sing, as all my effort went toward holding back tears so I could read the notes.

Full circle sure isn’t what I thought it would be.

My Social Butterfly

I have a social butterfly for a mother. She loves to flit about just like a butterfly from flower to flower saying hello to everyone she can. Sitting on her front porch she’ll holler out a hello and start up a conversation with anyone who walks by. Church is her particularly favorite flower garden of people to visit.

Photo By Charles J Sharp – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=27354026

A few years ago, a young family with itsy bitsy children befriended her. The baby would hug her and want to be held, the other kids would give her a sweet hug. Since most of her grandkids live a fair distance away, this was extra special to her. Sort of  like substitute grandkids. As those bitty kids grew older they got somewhat shy about hugs. As a result what used to be hugs between them morphed into fist bumps. I suppose it felt a bit less awkward for the kids. Either way, Mom still felt acknowledged and loved by this small gesture from these not so small people.

Those fist bumps evolved. She’d wander the halls after church looking for those once little kids and fist bump them, along with pretty much anyone else who would catch her eye. It’s  been quite a sight to see this frail silver-haired lady fist bumping teenagers and grownups and tiny tots. I tell ya, it totally makes her week.

Mom started chemotherapy about a month ago to treat stage four C word. Dad just wants to keep her home, sheltered from the germs of the world, which is wise, since her immune system is shot to heck. But for a social butterfly, isolation is basically worse than death. So they still go to church, unless she’s feeling under the weather. The happy thing about this fist bump habit she’d already acquired is that she can still greet people with her own brand of love. There’s fewer germs on the back of a hand than on the palm which a traditional handshake carries.  Her fist bumps allows her to say hello, feel connected, and give or get love with less risk.

She doesn’t have much energy to wander the halls after church now, but plenty of people come by her pew, make eye contact and get a fist bump from her. When they ask how she’s doing, she answers, “As good as can be expected!” That’s an honest answer to an genuine inquiry. I find it an interesting turn of events that the flowers now come visit this sweet butterfly.

I don’t know how much longer the world gets to enjoy this particular stunning butterfly, Hopefully it’s a gentle flight filled with all the flowers of family and friends. She’s surely brought plenty of that to people as she’s flitted into and out of their lives. Mine has been particularly blessed by her vibrant wings of love.

~~~~~

Beautiful and graceful, varied and enchanting, small but approachable, butterflies lead you to the sunny side of life. And everyone deserves a little sunshine.

—Jeffrey Glassberg

Kicking the Bucket List

Friday Letter to My Kids – May 2018.

Dear J, J, L and L,

Surprise! I don’t have an actual bucket list.

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Hopes and dreams, definitely. Mostly the sort left unspoken. Something about saying a wish out loud takes away its power, I suppose. Call me superstitious, or weird.

There has been this one very strong desire. Unfortunately, there hasn’t been much I personally could do to make that happen. That’s an ongoing theme in my life. But in this case the wish, the dream, the desire, was truly out of my control. All I could do was watch, for the most part.

Of Seeds and Seedlings

I planted a few seeds here and there and waited to see what would happen. I did what was in my power to help those seeds grow, watering, weeding, a bit of fertilizer.

From when you were little, I let you know that I thought going to college and getting a degree was really, really, really important. As you got older, and as life unfolded the raggedy, unpredictable way life does, the importance of a college education became even clearer and stronger in my mind. Without nagging, I hope, I reminded you from time to time how critical that was.

Implicit in that was that you’d get decent grades in high school and graduate. I celebrated those high school graduations with pride and tears.

Just a A Few Years Later… In the Eternal Scheme of Things

And now, nineteen years after the first of you graduated from high school, all four of you have Bachelor’s Degrees.

That one sentence doesn’t say enough. It makes it sound magical and simple, which I know it wasn’t. Those degrees you’ve earned have arrived after tears, and heartache, sweat, late nights, all-nighters, dozens of different occupations, roommates, spouses, children, worry, debt, stops, starts, u-turns, illnesses, battles, winding roads, weddings, a divorce, unexpected detours, and plenty of life’s storms. Each one of you pushed through whatever obstacles came your way and you kept trying, kept working, kept keeping on.

I’ll bet you never knew you were making one of my dreams come true.

The degree isn’t simply for me to brag about, or for you to have some piece of paper to hang on the wall. The college degree has always been about the doors it can open for you, the opportunities it can make available and the freedom it can potentially provide. It can save you from a lifetime of back-breaking physical work. It can give you peace of mind and a fallback position. That’s what I really wanted for you. Now that you have those degrees, your own dreams are more within reach.

This is the Part Where Words Fall Short

I’m so happy for each of you, and so incredibly proud of you.

Now my only dream for you is that you find happiness and joy in whatever lies ahead. I’m pretty sure you’ll do just fine.

All my love,

Mom

Bluebird of Happymess

““`

“Life is a one time offer, use it well.”

 

 

I Haz Wurds

I had the distinct pleasure recently of going to a job interview. I know about elevator pitches, “me in thirty seconds,” power statements, objective phrases, all those tips and tricks for how to nail an interview and land a job. But it’s been a while since I’ve done the real world thing. I was woefully unprepared. But then, lately,  I seem to be unprepared for most of what life sends my way.

You think I’m exaggerating. I’m not.

So here’s how the interview began.

Them: So, tell me about yourself.

Me: I iz a person. I do stuff.

And it just went downhill from there. Ending eleven minutes later with Them saying, “we’ll call you.”

Which I’m guessing means they won’t call.

It isn’t just in a stressful situation like a job interview where my brain goes south. Oh, no. I can be in a social setting and fail just as spectacularly.

Them: So I heard you’re writing a novel. That’s so cool! What’s it about?

Me: There’s this main character. Stuff happens.

Them: Hmmm…

Me: Hey, I’ve also written a children’s book…

Them: Oh really? Tell me about it!

Me: Well, there’s this main character… She does stuff…

Impressive, isn’t it? I know. Sometimes I astound myself with my utter lack of ability to communicate clearly and succinctly. If I could just type out my thoughts I might be more effective. Maybe I could pretend to be mute. It might work out better that way, although I’d surely offend someone unintentionally.

I’ve been told I’m a pretty decent teacher. Recently, after a teaching gig, I had a friend say something along the lines of, “I don’t think what was in your head was what you were saying.” Which was her kind way of saying that I tanked big time.

There are people who know me that could testify that I can carry on actual conversations. I’m often coherent and almost intelligent. It’s true that I’m more comfortable listening, although there’s usually an unspoken dialogue running in my head that’s witty and brilliantly spot on. It’s just that the connection between my brain and my mouth seems to be defective somehow.

I’m hoping I can land a job that involves no interview, no face to face contact, and no verbal interaction. I know, I know that’s not at all realistic.

In the meantime I’ll work on my verbal skills, practice my “me in thirty seconds” spiel and polish up my interview answers.

Or maybe, I could be a dog walker and pooper scooper! I’ve heard there’s an app for that.

 

 

 

 

 

It’s California’s Fault, Maybe

Is this evolution or just getting old? Or are we talking something else?

That’s what I’ve been asking myself recently as I’ve clearly changed from my morning person ways.

I used to be awake before the birds or the worms. Before the sun even thought about showing its face I was up and going full speed ahead.  I’d be typing away on my keyboard, or climbing onto the saddle of my bicycle, or out doing yard work long before most people rolled over to slam the snooze button for the first time.

But that doesn’t happen anymore.

I don’t even remember the last time it happened.

Sure I still get out on the bike and ride, quite a bit actually. But that ride starts long after the elementary school across the street has morning announcements and well into first recess.

Who is that Grandma on her bike at ten am, or later?

Yesterday I had to rethink my late ways. Being January, naturally the morning hours are cold and I’m quite justified in waiting to ride until the air warms a bit. But yesterday, good grief, it was nearly eighty degrees when I was on my last couple miles. Too warm for my liking.

If I value my life, here in the bowels of Hades during the summer I have to get out  to ride before the sun breaks the horizon. Eighty degrees pre-sunrise is the norm. But I’m not putting up with that nonsense in January, or even in February.

So how do I get my early bird ways back? Or is that impossible? Have I crossed some invisible age barrier? Wait, that can’t be it. I’ve heard that old people only sleep a few hours a night.  I’m close to needing double digits of sleep.

Maybe, just maybe, it’s the lack of sunlight. I’ve noticed that the sun doesn’t rise until sometime after seven, which is weird for this part of the world. Seriously, I swear every other year we’ve lived in Arizona we were immune to that whole short days/long nights winter thing. Just like we’re immune to the snow, rain, intelligent drivers and honest politicians. It just doesn’t happen here.

This year has been different, seriously. The sun sets at some dumb hour like five-thirty when it used to set at seven. And mornings take an eternity to arrive. I just don’t understand.

Don’t give me any of that earth tilt and rotation and planetary alignment stuff either, because I’m not buying it.

I blame Trump and Congress and especially those Californians. In fact, I’d let those Washington people slide and lay it all at the feet of California. They’re right there where the sun sets, weighing down the country with their strange beach-going ways. And all those earthquakes, what’s up with that?

I could be wrong. I admit that. Something else could be the cause. But, think about it for a  minute.

Okay, okay. Probably it’s the whole aging thing. And not having the grandkids close by, that’s clearly thrown off my chi. One out of seven lives nearby-ish. The rest, I have to rely on the Jetson’s style of contact, video chatting. It’s something, but it doesn’t make the sun rise on time like it used to when they all lived close.

Maybe we accidentally subscribed to some charming door-to-door salesman’s pitch of daylight savings time and it’s really messing with the account balance of the space/time continuum. Those sales tactics are sneaky. (And no, I am NOT buying any girl scout cookies this year. It’s still January. I’m still rocking my resolutions to eliminate all joy and gladness from life.)

It could also be evolution. But I’ll have to give that more thought. Wasn’t it Einstein or Lincoln or MSH who said, “The only thing constant in life is change.”

Maybe if you’re out and about on the trails around here I’ll see you and nod or wave. But it won’t be early, that’s for sure. Worms are for the birds.

 

 

Apples and Other Things

 

Monday Friday Letter to My Kids – September 25, 2017

Dear J, J, L and L,

I know, I know, it’s not Friday. And I haven’t written to you for ages. I figured it must be about time. And besides, why wait until Friday?

I ran across this quote recently.

“Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and living alone won’t either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning. You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You are here to risk your heart. You are here to be swallowed up. And when it happens that you are broken, or betrayed, or left, or hurt, or death brushes near, let yourself sit by an apple tree and listen to the apples falling all around you in heaps, wasting their sweetness. Tell yourself you tasted as many as you could.” ~ Louise Erdrich

It’s not exactly the kind of thought a mother wants to talk to her kids about. Nope. A mom wants to talk about hope and happiness and all that good, sticky, lick-your-fingers kind of stuff.

But there it is.

I’ve tried all I can to protect you. From day one it was my main instinct. Still is.

At this point in your lives, and in mine, all I can do to provide protection is pray like your lives depend on my ability to call down the powers of heaven and surround you like a giant cone of cotton candy. But, no matter how much faith I have, or how hard I pray for you, I know the cotton candy part isn’t always, or even often, in the equation. Although, I really do believe there’s divine help made available in abundance.

I know you have each faced down some hard things in life, even as young as you are. I know the road has been broken and has worn down countless pairs of shoes for some of you. I know you’ve felt swallowed up and beaten down.  I would take and carry it away from you if I could. But motherhood has its limitations.

Thankfully, I also know you’ve felt the opposite of all that heartache; Joy beyond measure! I remember big J’s words as we left the hospital to get some breakfast after his little H arrived. You said with every bit of energy of your soul, “What a beautiful morning to be born!” I know you’ve each shared a similar outpouring of happiness beyond imagining.

Mostly your days bring that mixed tangle of laughter and frustration, just like it should. Some days you stagger under the weight of it all. Other days it’s like you have wings and the world is alive with hope and energy.

Every experience you have is another bite of one of those apples. Sour, juicy, tough-skinned, sweet, wormy, bruises, crunchy, crisp, laced with cinnamon and sugar, tasteless, tangy, tart, cold, mushy, magnificent, tiresome.

I pray you taste as many as you can, as often as you can.  I hope you love, often and deeply, and with wild abandon. I hope you occasionally have the chance to sit under the tree and savor the smells and sounds.

I’m working on my hugging-more and worrying-less experiences. Those are the apples I need to taste more of.

Now I feel like baking up some apple crisp. And then adding a pile of vanilla ice cream on the side. Sounds like the perfect breakfast, doesn’t it?

I love you wildly,

Mom

~~~~~

Photo by Brian Arthur

“And when you crush an apple with your teeth, say to it in your heart:
Your seeds shall live in my body,
And the buds of your tomorrow shall blossom in my heart,
And your fragrance shall be my breath,
And together we shall rejoice through all the seasons.”
~Kahlil Gibran

Where Am I?

Where am I?

That’s the question I’ve asked myself on waking this past year.

That probably happens to us as we get older, but I’m not that old. Yet.

“Where am I” came as a result of what seemed like constant traveling since June 2016.

A funeral, a birth, a reunion, a contract, another birth, an illness, a visit, more visits, a hospital stay, a conference or two, grandbaby sitting, visits, a 60^th anniversary celebration, more visits, oh, and an eclipse. That briefly sums up most of the reasons for my going and going and going. A few times I stayed put. Six weeks were the longest I stayed anywhere and even there I left and returned on short stints.

At least half, or more, of every month our house sat empty, except for the occasional scorpion wandering through or a random spider spinning lies.  I was gone so much that we debated moving, on a permanent basis, out-of-state. But the stars didn’t align and it never felt right.

When I was away from home I missed my bed, my friends, my routine. But when I returned I was anxious to leave again. The emptiness of a vacant house can wear on a person. And by vacant, I mean empty of people, not things.

I got in a bunch of amazing hikes though and a couple of campouts. I hiked in the snow as well as in the heat, but most importantly, in the mountains.

I experienced winter, which I haven’t done in decades. It’s a fun novelty when you know you don’t have to endure the full six months of it. Well, it’s fun unless your flight gets cancelled due to the weather and it’s nearly Christmas and company is due at your house that day while you’re in another state. Good times. But then, that resulted in a side trip to see my cousin, which was an unexpected bonus.

Through it all I learned to relish my personal space. Airplanes don’t lend themselves to emotional comfort if you’re an introvert with a fairly expansive personal bubble. (And an expansive backside.) And yet, on the other hand, I learned to cherish hugs and physical touch and actually being in the same room with the people you love. Phone calls and texts and video chats are great, but none of that compensates for the real thing.

I drove a few times to my far off destination. A debate still runs in my head if road trip or air trip is more comfortable, emotionally and physically. Eleven hours in a car can race by if you have an engaging audio book to keep your mind occupied.

Those people who travel as part of their job are troopers. Kudos to them for waking up in a different hotel, city, country, or hovel.

MSH has traveled for work most of our married life. I thought he had the kushy part of that deal, since he left me with the kids and went off to work (and sleep) without constant interruptions and demands. He’d fly home every few weekends to visit us. Until this year I didn’t realize what a drag air travel can become. Until this year I didn’t appreciate all he’d gone through living alone, living away, living out of a suitcase.

I love that man more than ever before after this year’s experiences. I’d prefer keeping our traveling to trips we take together.

Of course, I’ve got to book a flight today for a trip next month. It’s definitely one I’m looking forward to as it involves some of the grands. So when I told a friend I was done traveling, I guess I only meant temporarily.

If home is where my heart is, then I’ve been home this entire past year. My heart is always with MSH. My heart is with my children and grandchildren. My heart is with my parents and siblings. My heart pounds right here in my chest reminding me to live and love life where I stand. No matter where that is.

So, where am I?

I am home.

~~~~~

“It is good to have an end to journey toward; but it is the journey that matters, in the end.” ~ Ursula Le Guin

A Beast In the Night

I may be slightly guilty of complaining about my neighbors on Facebook. In most respects they are nice, normal people with young kids, relatives, friends, a dog and a trampoline. I wonder, though, if they celebrate more than the average family. And I also wonder, often, how to disable the bass speaker from their stereo system in a quiet, legal way.

This past weekend I found myself actually wishing for the simple annoyance of that bass thump thump thump vibrating through my bedroom wall at any hour of the day or night. What could possibly make me wish for such a thing?

Wilderness camping.

Yes, you heard me right.

Wilderness camping.

Aw… peace, quiet, beauty and serenity

When I think Wilderness I imagine large open meadows filled with wildflowers, pines intermingled with quaking aspens, blue skies, birds twittering, chipmunks chattering, and the smell of a campfire, with a soft breeze rustling the leaves. Maybe it would even include a brief afternoon downpour, which makes the air even fresher and more wilderness-like.

 

Our little outing included all that in glorious abundance. Exactly what a person seeks when they go out into the wild. At least, that is what THIS person seeks when going to a wilderness area. Don’t you?

Apparently other people, people I do not comprehend, think wilderness is for unmuffled engine noises and dust and the smell of gasoline and exhaust.

 

The Beast’s Minions, no doubt.

Not long after setting up camp, in the WILDERNESS, we realized we were way too close to a dirt road that apparently compares to Times Square in mountain terms. Holy smokes! Every motorcycle, ATV, four-wheeler, jeep, and zoomy loud obnoxious vehicle ever invented drove up and down that road.

 

We took comfort in the thought, the absolute certainty really, that once the sun set the traffic would abate.

But alas, we found that assumption to be completely and totally incorrect. In fact, some of the wheeled monstrosities seemed to amp up the volume after dark.

Somewhere around 10:30 p.m. someone unleashed some Mad Max movie vehicle from the depths of Hades. I told MSH, “I think the apocalypse is happening. Isn’t that what the end of the world sounds like?”

This “War Rig” is actually from the movie Mad Max, but could easily be what I heard and felt.

I pictured amplifiers attached to where a muffler would be, flames shooting out the top and back, and a doomsday soundtrack that normally plays in a sci-fi movie when an entire planet is about to be destroyed. The driver most certainly looked like one-eyed Dennis Hopper from Water World. And I’m certain the beast was a half-track, or some tank or a war machine. This thing made our tent rattle and vibrate and I swear the ground shook. The fact that lightning and thunder were intermittently happening only added to the creep factor. Unlike the other vehicles that blasted through after dark, this one could be heard two to three miles away, coming and going.

 

Unnerving. Definitely not sleep inducing.

So MSH and I decided to read a bit and talk over what we were reading. A few more, by comparison, fairly quiet ATVs blasted through, surprisingly. Near midnight we turned out the lights and assumed we’d sleep through the night.

No flames shooting, since it’s daytime, but definitely similar to what I felt and heard.

No flames shooting in the daylight,  but definitely similar to what I felt and heard.

Until 1:45 a.m. when The Beast Built From War Machines of Horror Movies returned, driving slower and if possible, louder. The mountains echoed with the roar of this monstrosity, I swear house sized boulders voluntarily rolled down mountains and trees fell of their own accord at the sound of this thing.

 

What little bit of sleep I did manage was nudged awake by birds and chipmunks at the first hint of dawn.

A cousin of The Beast, no doubt. Not so scary in the daylight.

The ATVs didn’t wake up until five hours later, a very welcome respite.

 

If wilderness is so loud and ridiculous, how do I escape the noise and chaos of mankind and their machines? I guess I need to try backpacking miles and miles away from any roads. Or try setting up camp next to a very loud river. Or both.

I suppose I’d better get my backpacking body back in shape.

In the meantime, I guess I could be more tolerant of my neighbor’s late night stereo blasting. At least it’s not some vehicle from Mad Max showing up at my doorstep, right?

Have you ever noticed that so much about life and the troubles we go through is all about perspective?

 

~~~~~~~

 

Disclaimer #1: When I was a young’un, dad and his pals and their families, all headed up into the mountains from time to time specifically to ride motorcycles all over the place. We were oblivious to the thought that maybe our noise and dust weren’t as delightful to others as they were to us. But once it was getting dark, those machines got parked for the night. No one would mistake our little engines for some beast from the underworld, that’s for dang sure.

Disclaimer #2: More logical people than I have suggested having a chat with the neighbors about turning down the music a bit after midnight. But, I’ve found it’s more fun to whine on Facebook about it than to resolve the situation.