Life's Little Journies

This past Saturday, my family and I traveled to Summit County to attend my father's memorial. And just to prove there is always humor in any journey we undertake . . .

My son is no longer afraid of gerbil tunnels. Observe . . .

When we arrived in Breckenridge, we decided to check into the hotel while it was still light. I had booked a room at the Wayside Inn - located approximately 5 minutes outside of Breckenridge. My first impressions were not all that favorable, as when I asked about my reservation, the front receptionist informed me that she had my reservation down for the third of February.


"Ah, yes," I said, "but obviously, I need the reservation today." (I felt it kinder not to let her know the reason I was in town - and that there was NO WAY IN HECK I gave her the wrong date. Considering I was wholly responsible for planning my father's memorial, I'm pretty sure I was fairly accurate on the date. I might have said the 28th instead of the 27th . . . but FEBRUARY THIRD? Not likely.) She handed me the key to Room 9A, then explained carefully that I would have to open the door to 9 - at which point there would be a corridor, and two doors labeled 9A and 9B. "I put you right next door," she said, pointing left.

Only there was no building to the left. Going left led us away from the Wayside Inn and into the High Tor condos.


Insert fifteen minutes of a very confused T. and I circling the Wayside Inn, until we located a Room 9 in the structure to the right of the Wayside Inn. I took the key and tried the lock. The door opened quite easily. . . but the room was filled with ski gear, half drunk bottles of water, and an eye-catching set of pink women's lingerie laid out on the bed . . . in short, Room 9 was quite definitely occupied. Sincerely grateful that the occupants were apparently elsewhere, I backed out, re-locked the door, and headed back to the main office.


The receptionist looked at me like I was an idiot. "9A," she said "is to the left." No one seemed at all disturbed that I was holding a key that very obviously opened the door to at least two rooms. I wandered back out to the car, and T. and I circled to the left again. "There's nothing here," T. said, "except the condos." I shrugged. "Let's see if there is a Room 9." "This can't be right," T. said. "Look at the bikes hanging on the porches . . . and the grills . . ." "Fine," I said, "You get to go back in and ask them this time." "Oh, no. I don't think so." T. pulled up next to Condo Room 9. "I'll get the car ready for a fast get-away in case someone tries to shoot you," he said.

And thus, we located the mysterious Room 9 - which did, in fact, have a 9A and 9B. Not quite sure what to expect at this point, I held my breath as I slipped the key in the lock. It unlocked the door - but then again, I was pretty sure I was holding a key that would unlock a multitude of doors . . . and I wasn't quite sure what awaited on the other side . . .

Much to my surprise, door 9A led to the NEVERENDING STAIRCASE. I began laughing like a loon. It was all so Alice-in-Wonderland-ish. Find the room, find the doors, into the corridor, up the stairs . . . I could hardly breathe because of the high altitude, but I laughed myself silly anyway. T., who was hauling the suitcases, was most unamused.






Then the stairway opened up into an absolutely adorable furnished condo. It was clean, warm, and had everything from a refrigerator and sink to books and movies. It felt like we had stepped into someone else's home. A. immediately fell in love and began racing up and down the stairs. T. and I were very pleasantly surprised. We found a second endless staircase that led upstaris to a loft. And T. immediately collapsed for a nap. A. bounced onto the second bed and claimed it as his.




A long story short - we ended up enjoying our time at The Wayside Inn immensely . . . and I would recommend it to anyone who is traveling in Summit County - though you may want to bring your own security measures. At least the adventure brought a little bit of laughter to an otherwise sobering day.

You might be a Redneck if . . .

Your pine-scented car air freshner is actually last year's Christmas tree . . .

Self-Imposed Schizophrenia

Life with the 'Roo . . . went to scrape frost off of windows and seal around back window popped off. Reason 462 that I am in the market for a new vehicle. Hopefully my obsession with cars will end soon with the purchase of a sturdy vehicle that I will cherish for the next 14 years of my life (which is partly why I am very tempted by little extras like sunroofs and heated seats.

Life with family . . . my dad passed away on Martin Luther King day - and I realized that if there was going to be a memorial, it was most likely up to me to both fund and plan it. I decided that my father was a "good old boy" - so I'm giving him the best "good old boy" farewell I could think of . . . I've called his favorite bar and am having an informal gathering where friends can dedicate a last drink to him.

Oddly, I find myself looking forward to his memorial. I have so many bad memories over the past five years . . . but his old friends don't have those memories. They remember him how he used to be . . . and I think that is EXACTLY the does of medicine that I need right now. I spent the past two days writing his obituary, and much to my surprise, I began unearthing good memories. . .

Someday I will be able to look at a photo album and not cry.

But all of this has led to me being slightly schizophrenic. I am juggling too many things at once (but what else is new?). I am trying to be a good mother, a good daughter, organize a memorial, and keep track of all my duties as a legal secretary. I am searching for a new car, and working on a new budget.

And did I mention I need to get going on plans for a friend's wedding?

I keep telling myself that life will slow down. Maybe someday I'll be dumb enough to believe it. But, in the meantime, I've discovered mead-filled chocolates and have hidden a stash in my drawers at work. I'm calling it self-medication.

This channel will now return to its regular program . . . with a chance of additional blogginess this weekend. Thank you for your patience while I experience technical difficulties . . .

New Year's Resolutions 2007

I'm still handing out Christmas presents . . . so anyone who points out that I'm a little late getting to my New Year's resolutions will receive nothing but a lump of coal next year. You have been warned.

For those who do not know, I've been mired in a family crisis which has been taking most of my time and energy. My father, who has essentially been an Alzheimer's patient for the last three or four years (same symptoms, different cause) is dying. I did my grieving four years ago . . . which leaves me in a stable, if fatalistic, mood - but expect a post shortly in memory of my father.

On to happier thoughts:

It's a New Year. And despite the wallet being stolen, the car needing repairs, and the random blizzards and 100 mph winds that have swept through Denver (I'm not joking - the wind about took me off my feet when I came out of the grocery store), I am in exceedingly high spirits and all has been going well.

I've just been remiss in my New Year resolution list. I hereby resolve:

I will have a new vehicle by 2008.
I will be signed up for and/or complete the Standard class at the Tracker School by 2008. (Words cannot describe the sheer awesome nature of this school and its founder.)
I will concentrate on and make progress in creative projects (including Alyssa Aside, my NanoWriMo novel, and my Siamese cross-stitch pillow).
I will work on organization and time management so the details of life can be relegated to just that role - details.
I will spend time with my son, raising him with patience and love.

Looks like a full year! Wish me luck.

Return to Reality

It is Hard to drag
this body, heavy
from days spent -
watching the birds frolic in
winter's bare branches.

To dust off the eyes
and train them again to see
the trails left
from Nothing Much and
things not happening.

My hand is on the coffee pot.

I do not Suppose caffeine will
cure my Malady.
Rather, it will make me Crackle
with artificial Life.

Fingerprints

"Papa, can we have this one?"
The boy's face is radiant.
He feels the needles alive and
breathing softly against his skin.

Papa clears his throat.
"I don't know," he says,
bending to one knee. "See, here?
The broken branches? Someone was
careless."

The boy's hand tightens.
The scent of crushed pine fills the air.
He has no interest
in Scholastics, save where it
explains the laws of Nature.
He holds the branch in his hand,
feeling the life within, savoring the scent of pine,
watching a delicate drop of sap
well from the raw stump.

Papa says, "It looks like it
is weeping."
"No," said the boy. "It is Life -
Life bursting forth."

Papa snaps off a broken branch.
"It's just a tree, son."

"It is a fingerprint," the boy says,
defiant.

These do not sound like
the words, Papa imagines
rolling off the lips of his future son.
"Load her up, then,"
he says, shrugging,
the gravel of disappointment
already turning, like heavy stones.

The boy nods, once,
sharply, dusting his hands on
his jeans.

When he walks by Papa,
there is a scent of pine.
Papa claps him on the shoulder;
grumbling to hide his own surprise.

"You made a good choice, son."

The words resonate. The boy nods,
once. And, for a moment,
he is a bridge.

Papa is surprised, how gently
he shoulders the tree,
and loads it into the truck.
How little it annoys him to find
his hands are warm
and wet with sap.

"Life," he grumbles,
not seeing the small wounds
that will fester,
and break open.

Years later, as a bird - lighting on a branch,
the scent of pine
will trigger a memory.
The sap, sticky, thick as blood,
will forge a bridge.

The memory of a tree
will bring his estranged son home.