And then they stole my shoes...

Happy new year. I really don't think we'll make it till midnight, 2007 will just have to see itself in. Although I think some of us who are living in our house will still be wide awake by then. The girls drove to Keystone to watch the Torchlight Parade, the Keystone ski instructors on River run hill, carrying torches, followed by fireworks. On the way home they stopped at Starbucks, the reason they may actually make it to midnight by the time the sugar and caffeine wears off. It has been a hellish week, and not a whole lot of an end in sight. I really don't remember the last time we were not stressed out about something. I actually stopped to count all the people we have in our house the other day. There are eight of us sharing our modest, four bedroom home. in addition to the five of us, B., me, Marci, Amber and Scarlett, my cousin Heather is sleeping in the den, and B's brother Jay and his wife Wendy are sleeping on the living room floor. One dares not sit down in the living room without prodding the piles of blankets on the couches to make sure there is nothing alive under them. One dares not throw anything away, because out of eight people, it is bound to be precious to someone. And one certainly dares not go to the bathroom without first making certain there is enough toilet paper- just because there was a full roll last time does not mean there will not be an empty cardboard tube this time.

And to top it off, in the middle of a frantic rush this afternoon, trying to get somewhere between ten and twenty (I really have no idea, I've stopped keeping track) back to back cleans done- back to backs are units that check out in the morning and back in the same afternoon, giving us six hours to clean and repair them- somebody stole my shoes. I stepped out of them by the door of one of our units, elbowed my way past the guests still loitering around after their checkout time was past, and three hours and a sparkling unit later, went outside to get some paperwork, and my shoes... nowhere to be found. I have giggled to myself at the mental picture of them pulling my smelly old tennis shoes, with their ragged backs and the rubber and soles stained with dark red Moab dirt, the laces permanently knotted and the lumps on top where my big toenails are working their way through, out of their hip rolling luggage, and wondering which of their kids would think to take such awful, dead shoes on vacation. They may ask around, may even bring them along the next time they are all together, that pair of rank old tenny shoes, and only then will they remember that the cleaner did start cleaning before they left, and could they be HER once blue and white Skechers? I wonder if they'll even feel slightly bad about it? I wonder if they'll wonder what I did? Because I had to drive myself home in my socks, the ice and muddy water soaking onto my socks from the Jeep's floormats, tippytoe over the ice in our driveway, and find myself myself another pair of shoes.

The pair I wore the rest of the day are the pair that dumped me flat on my bottom on the lobby steps of one of our buildings the other day, and got me twenty bucks for the effort. (Stories of my clumsiness, of bizarre things that could only happen to me are actually quite easy to come by) One of our guests had left a few valuables in their unit when they checked out, and needed me to let them back in to search for them. I gladly obliged, except when i got there, I could not find any person who matched the discription of "a big black guy in a black sweatsuit". The women in the vehicle outside the lobby assured me he was inside waiting for me. Long story short, three fast trips through the building yeilded nobody by that description, so I went running outside to tell the women so, didnt notice the slush on the front steps, forgot how little tread my natty heeled slip-on shoes possessed, hooked my arm over the handrail on my way down, jammed it into my ribs and armpit, slammed my tailbone onto the steps, unceremoniously slid down a few of them, and came to an undignified stop in front of the horified guests. Hopped up as jauntily as possible (if I had been a cat, I would have yawned and licked myself for a moment, as part of the whole nonchalant, it-happens-everyday act) assured them that I was much more rubbery and resilient than they might expect, yanked down my jacket to cover the giant expanse of soaked denim back there, and let them into their danged unit, where they found their stupid wedding ring, and I stubbornly refused to limp as I escorted them back outside. As I told them to drive very safely on their way back to sunny San Antonio, and watch those steps on the way out, the wife who witnessed my undignified splat slipped me a twenty, which I feebly tried to refuse. I waited till I was in my next condo of the day to pull down my pants in front of a mirror and survey the damage. An impressive, but by no means unususal for me, bruise on the left cheek. To bad every such decoration of my hinder regions does not pay as well. I could retire comfortably.

Well, it is 11:02 pm, and I still don't think we'll make it until '07. I just heard a sleepy sigh, which ended in a snore, from the lump under the covers in our luxurious, pillow-top, king-sized bed. The minute the lump wakes up and reallizes I am still sitting at the computer, the whining may start. I shall just very quietly turn off the computer, peel off my socks, and try not to let any icy appendages venture into the warm cocoon he has created for himself. G'night, love you all.

Here it is, Sunday again. We all just got home, stumbling into a messy house, nobody making any offers to remedy that problem. I am not snowboarding or going to the rec center tonight. A little unusual, since I have been gone every evening this week that we did not have company. Christmas is approaching. We all know it, can feel it in our bones. A dread, a small bit of panic, a temptation to crawl in a hole and stay there until about the sixth of January. I never figured myself for the type of person who excersizes for therapy, but I occasionally surprise myself. TV is boring, the house is messy and depressing, the fridge is empty (we seem to be even shorter on time than money to buy groceries) so more often than not, I find myself lacing up my Gel Asics and hitting the track. It's something to do, the endorphins kick in after a mile or so, and I settle into a comfortable stride that almost feels as though the track is coming toward me, instead of me moving over it. I watch the white cinderblock walls and the floor to ceiling windows slide past me, steal surreptitious glances at the hotties at the weight machines (don't judge me, I know Christmas is past, but the catalog can still be mildly entertaining...), and outrun all the leftover stress and angst of the day. By the time my run is over, and I have pumped enough iron to turn my arms and shoulders into mush, and have simmered in the hot tub or steam room, then shocked my overheated self in the pool, I feel exhausted but so much more alive, have forgiven my job for the stress it causes, and am ready to not resign again for another day. I have a whole list of uncomplimentary things I call people like me, who would rather work out than sleep, who prefer salts to sweets, who drink water instead of soda. I make jokes about it only seeming like they live longer. It is only when I hear my friends say the same thing about me that I become very quiet. That may be the facts of me, but at heart, I am actually a lazy slob. I do exactly what I want to do, which most of the time, is getting out of the house and doing something rather than watching the same movie that we watched last week, and cooking just so I can clean the kitchen later. Plus, I just bought myself new running shoes the other day. They only have about fifteen miles on them, still all springy and arch-supporty, still fresh and white. Who could resist the allure of a new pair of tenny-shoes?

....Well, it's not Sunday anymore. I really meant to get back to my computer after that distraction (can't remember anymore what it was) but by the time I got back up to our room, where the computer is, B. had turned it off and was in bed. It's actually Thursday now, the day after the "Blizzard of '06", as the news is calling it. We only got about six to eight inches of snow, and are used to it, unlike our stranded Denverites and holiday travelers who could not make it up here as planned. They got two to three feet. It has been a nightmare of changed bookings, cancellations, and extended stays the last two days. The office has piles of Fed-exed gear that got here in fine shape, unlike it's owners, who are stuck in L.A., or worse yet, Wakeeney, Kansas. And to top it off, the first big powder day since the slopes have been open, I worked a ten hour day, gunning my poor little Jeep through piles of snow and slush, racing from one near catastrophe to the next, stopping long enough to chug a meal-replacement shake (no, I'm not THAT health conscious, but bless the person who came up with the "sixty second meal"- tastes like swamp goo and bitter cocoa, but provides a much-needed energy boost), and later, a freebie Nature Valley granola bar from a stack of free samples in a building lobby. Cleaned out the granola chunks with a free sample of Nicorette chewing gum (sans the nicotene, being a free sample), an interesting orangie-minty flavor. My standard hunger staver-offer when I am in Keystone, where cheap food is as hard to find as...well, you supply the metophor. I could think of about three, but they are all decidedly naughty. And I'm too tired to make one up.

On the days when more sustanance is needed, or one's mental state needs a longer recovery time than the time it takes to drink an icky chocolate shake, there are two places in Keystone where one can eat for around three bucks. Both can send one straight into a state of gurgling lethargy, complete with gassy bloat and breath that could send a camel running. One is the Keystone grocery, a Texaco station with a few aisles of groceries and a prepared foods section where one's pocketbook is viciously molested, but where one can still buy a burrito for under five bucks. The other place where locals can shell out a just a few bones for some uncomfortable bodily functions is Uncle Pizza, better known as it has been known for years, as Pizza 101. It consists of a countertop, two fridges, a massive oven, a tip jar, and three barstools, and one or two shaggy headed shredders squeezed into a space that would hardly hold a gourmet chef's knifeblock. Order a slice, specify what you want on it, your toppings get slapped onto an already baked, basic cheese pizza, tossed into a crusted, ashy oven, and several minutes later, thrown onto a paper plate which is unceremoniously slid towards you. Fight for a barstool, or if you are having a "cute day", grin at the liftie who's just finishing his slice, take him up on his offer to vacate his seat for you, and sink your teeth into a slice the size of your head, all bready goodness and grease, and as you inhale it, idly wonder just how miserable you'll be the rest of the afternoon. Trade powder stash tips, or sob stories about having to work too much with the other six people there (maximum capacity, folks), wash down that last bit of crust just in time to offer your seat to the cutie who just grinned at you, slap down three bucks to cover your slice plus tip, and elbow your way out the door. There you have it, peoples. Keystone on three dollars a day. That is, if one meal a day is all you require. Of course, if your budget is a ten dollar meal, there are infinitely more options, and if it is more like seventy or eighty dollars a meal, well, you will not be disappointed then either. But it takes a very crafty lass to feed herself on three little bitty dollars when she is stuck out in a resort town all day.

It has been quite a weekend, we had a group in our house that, to use a word I learned today, was a bit of an olla podrida. For those of you as verbally unaware as I was, that means a hodgepodge, a motley crew, a jumbled mess of bodies of all shapes and sizes. At one point, we counted sixteen heads packed into the living room, dining room, and kitchen. And given this particular group, they were not sixteen quiet, unobtrusive heads. The house was all but impossible to walk into, the entryway filled with skis and snowboards, and all the gear that acompanied them. Add to the mess most of my former youth group, carrying on where we left off five years ago before we all moved away from Scott City (I think it's safe to say nobody has gotten any less crazy), one massive, collective sugar and caffeine buzz, a week of sleep deprivation, shared sleeping quarters, smelly ski boot feet, a poker set, three digital cameras vith video, deafening surround sound, Dominoes pizza and donuts, one forty dollar parking ticket, one percocet-munching invalid with his upper arm broken in two places, (finished his second run of the day on a sled, being pulled down the mountain by a hundred-pound ski patrolless), and one poor, unsuspecting kid who came along for the ride and did not realise that this group was not for the faint of heart, and you have your olla podrida. It was fun, but judging by the bloodshot eyes and dragging suitcases as we bade them all goodbye, they were as exhausted as we were. But when will it ever work for us all to be together like that again? The answer, sadly, is probably never.

Night before last, we celebrated B's dad's birthday, and last night, we had the newlyweds over for dinner. They are spending their honeymoon in Keystone, in one of our condos. Now tonight, my cousin Heather is here, moving into our den. She will be working for us through the busy Christmas season. So much excitement, it's no wonder we have all come down with colds. It probably didn't help that we all shared the same water bottles, ate off the same silverware, slept on the same pillows as a dozen other kids this weekend. But there was no keeping it all straight, and with that group, nothing is sacred. One stops trying. When it was time to go to bed one of those nights, B had to wait until the invalid woke up and moved himself from our bed, then one of my girlfriends and I escaped up to our room for a long-overdue girl talk. Finally, poor B had enough, and without further ado, even though his bed was occupied with giggling girls, he climbed in it, burrowed beneath the covers and promptly began snoring. We girls looked at each other, shrugged, and since our conversation has been so unceremoniously interrupted, decided it was perhaps time to go to bed ourselves.

I started inspecting for a wall of bookings this weekend. Night skiing is going to be open seven days a week starting this weekend. Christmas season is upon us. We all need nyquil, lots of sleep, and kleenexes, not high paying, demanding guests and a busy season. But oh, well. This is why we are doing this when we are young and resilient. We'll get through it.

It's a Sunday afternoon, everyone besides Marci and me are working, but here I am. I got my one inspection done, and have been instructed to clean house for company tonight. There will be a trickle of kids through here, who are on their way home from B's littlest cousin's wedding in Kansas today. But still, here I am, at the computer. So far, I have started a load of laundry.

I did go to church this morning. I have discovered a very interesting group, one that, given my background, I can see how very much i have changed to be able to enjoy. It is comprised of about fifty people, and set up every Sunday morning in the Dillon movie theater. The thing that appeals to me is the utter absence of pressure. There is no uncomfortable meet-and-greet session, where for five minutes one is subjected to the mandatory, perfunctory hanshake, a glad-to-see-you without the curtesy of a name, not that a name would be remembered without any of the mnemonic aids of how should I remember you, are you from here, what do you do, etc. No need to explain just why this is your first time, no need to dress up, other than possibly a sweater instead of the usual grungy sweatshirt. No basket passed for an offering, accompanied by soaring, warm-fuzzy music and hawk-eyed deacons, just a small box in the back. No fusty, robed choir, swaying and warbling, one or two voices wailing far louder than the rest. So far, no pressure to join. Not that I am against such organised tradition, I just don't seem to be able to get terribly excited about it. In the movie theater, the music is loud and contemporary, the same songs that we listen to on the radio, delivered with the instructions to stand for it, or sit, or sing along, or not. Or whatever. In Kansas, it would all be too odd and unstructured, it would not go over so well. But in Summit County, it fits. I don't know whether to be concerned over the fact that I am acclimatizing, or not. I have never lived somewhere where there is less of an accepted standard. In lifestyles, fashion styles, vehicles, religion and spirituality, I have never experienced such a complete lack of comparison between each other. Locals wonder aloud why on earth the paper though that getting a Polo Ralph Lauren factory outlet store was front page news. Seriously, who cares? Forget Izod, if you're gonna spend that kinda money, there's no way you're gonna afford the important stuff, like knee surgery and beer.

I found myself snowboarding solo the other night, and as is often the case, fell into time with another single, and we ended up riding together the rest of the evening, until we closed down the lift at nine o'clock. He was a few years older than me, uses the bus as his only transportation, lives with slobby roommates. Mostly typical for Summit County, except that he was much better at the whole communicating thing than the usual monosyllabic grunt that accomompanies the usual jamming of the earbuds a little deeper into the ears, as is the case with most of the kids one meets on the lifts. We talked, and talked, and talked, between straightline runs, rudely showering slower skiiers and riders with washes of snow as we flew past, challenging each other to jumps, riding goofy-footed, and just outright speed. At some point, after our butts and knees were competely numb from sitting on the snow, we got onto God, and religion. His view of it all was typical of a lot of people I know up here. "I believe in a higher power, I believe the Bible is a story book written to illustrate a point, I believe that organised religion is necessary because people have to believe something and it keeps us humans halfway civilised. I just want to live my life, and not have to worry about it all. I suppose that means I'm going to hell, except that I don't believe in hell, or heaven, so that's kind of circular reasoning. My parents are Southern Baptists, when I cuss around them they tell me I'm making Jesus sad, which would concern me if i thought he was real. Maybe someday, I'll get on a different track, but right now, I'm just hangin loose..."

Lets face it, anyone with that mentality is not going to be at all attracted to stained glass and choir robes. The only touch of God they are going to get is on a one-on-one, personal level. I am sort of anti-project, I do not view friendship and acquaintances as any more of an opportunity than they want to make of them, I am not trying to nudge everyone I meet into full-blown Christianity, but if I have any credibility with them, maybe they'll give it a passing thought, and that's all I ask.

Another weekend, piles of fresh snow, and along with it, thousands of vacationers and weekenders. No chance of getting out and doing any turns these days. Even I'm not that stupid. This weekend was the Thirty Six Hours of Keystone. I ran around the last few days trying to prepare units for a wave of guests, and now I am asking myself, why? Most of the groups probably would not have noticed if we had done nothing. Poor B. did not get much sleep last night, answering the phone to find irate building managers screaming about parties taking place, guests locking their gear in the wrong ski lockers, groups wanting more keys for everyone coming and going from their condos at all hours of the night. Thank goodness, we are in the last twelve hours that the lifts are running continuously. The most troublesome guests have been successfully evicted, ending that barrage of calls, and B. is home at the moment, taking a quick break before everyone checks in and gets back from the slopes and the calls start coming in. Rumors are that this will be the last year Keystone hosts this particular event, and I must say, I hope so. Snowboarding all night long sounds like a fun, crazy thing to do in theory, but in reality, it is a recipe for major tragedy. Mixing booze, energy drinks, sub zero temperatures, poor visibility, and a sport that is already inherently dangerous cannot be good.

But in the middle of the constant, out of control spiral that is our life, all the guests that damage things, that have grandma make a reservation for twenty screaming college freshmen, that lock themselves out at three a.m., that dispute the charges on their credit card after we charge them for damages, sometimes the powers that be take pity on us, and when they does, they deliver bigtime.

Last night, we rented a small condo to a group we were a tiny bit suspicious were from a college in Denver. This morning, we got a livid phone call from the building manager- her brand new carpet was pulled apart, trash and cigarette butts were everywhere, exit signs were broken and dangling, fire extinguisher glass was broken, saliva and urine frozen to her windows, firewood thrown from the unit's third floor deck to the yard below, not to mention the deck had obviously been used more often than the toilets. Obviously there had been a bit of debauchery that had taken place between one and six a.m., and she was not happy about it. She called us, then the police, to fill out a damage report in order to be able to charge the responsible, or should we say irresponsible, party. When the deputy showed up, we pushed open the door that was left unlatched, and found ourselves looking over a sea of bodies, clothes, belongings, and blankets. About thirty unresponsive teenagers, draped over each other, rolled into corners, filling every inch of space not taken up with the evidence of the party the night before. We waded through the mess of bodies, shook enough comatose kids awake until we found the one whose credit card was on file, and told him to pack up his friends and get out. Same song, umpteenth verse for the in-county staff. Usually the story ends with us attempting to charge the credit card of the person who made the reservation, the offending party calling their credit card company and calling the charges fraudulent, and nobody has the energy to deal with it. We end up eating it because it's easier than actually trying to get money out of them. But this time, oh, yes, this time. As it turned out, most of the kids attend a private school in Denver. And as their perverse luck would have it, the owner of our company, who made the reservation thinking that the young man on the phone sounded exceptionally mature, just happens to be the next door neighbor to the dean of said school. Upon being made aware of this small bit of trivia, the kids assured us quite hastily that all damages would be promptly paid for, anything at all, no problem, so sorry. In return, the dean will not need to be any the wiser. Our faith in karma, what goes around comes around, ya win some, ya lose some, call it what you may, has been renewed.

Of course, similar things happened to us when we were little mennonite kids trying to get by with things we knew we aught not to. Friends of our parents working behind the counter when we tried to buy contraband- admittedly, our contraband was a Bryan Adams tape, not underage consumption of alcohol and ownership of a rainbow colored bong, the only thing still standing upright by this morning. I reallise what good kids we were, even though those around us were so convinced otherwise. We tried on makeup, these kids make out. In "love chambers" set up in closets, cushioned with the futons we so thoughtfully provide, lined with couch cushions and dozens of tea light candles. We bought disposable cameras, and even posed for pictures. Sometimes we wore jeans, and took our hair down. But that was about as far as it went. The stakes were just too high to gamble with our reputations any more than that. It might harm our chances of, you know, gettin' married. An expelled girl's chances go way down, especially when she is surrounded by so many innocent, untarnished ones. No boy minds having an expelled girlfriend, as long as nobody finds out about it. But they always ask the sweet, tame ones to marry them. The prospect of being really old, like twenty six, before someone proposed to us was enough to make one toe the line.

Says me, who was almost nineteen when she said "I do, I do, I will" before God and these witnesses. What a waste, to be so good all of those (one) years when she could have really been cutting loose. Now she's expelled anyway. And Mr.B. still even claims her.

But now it's getting dark, the phone hasn't rung for an hour, and I really should go create something to feed my family. Who needs kids when they have roomies? I cook for them, but only when I feel like it, because otherwise someone else will do it, I clean up their messes, but only so I can create a path to my own piles, I yell at them to turn their music down, but only because it is creating terrible discords with my own. I race to be home before they are, but only so I can claim my parking spot, and break up squables only because I can out-shreik everyone else and get my point across in the brief moment while everyone else is cringing from my banshee yell. Well, actually, I'm not the only one that employs that tactic. It's used by whoever's voice is the strongest during any given arguement. We live in a bustling house, and not a one of use could still be called a child- not as biological age is concerned anyway. Ok, till later.

A bad day on the slopes

As I was reminded today, it is nearing the end of November, and the archives for this month are bare. So are our nerves. So is the ground, mostly. So is the fridge, as well as the table yesterday, on Thanksgiving day. The only thing not bare and depressing at the moment are our condos. We are nearly at 100 percent capacity this week. Our entire month has been spent preparing for this week. We have been racing around, moving long-term renters out, throwing together quick-fixes that might cover the damage they left for just long enough to keep our short term thanksgiving guests happy, buying thousands of dollars worth of items to restock and refurnish our units back to how they were this spring. We have been deep cleaning everything, which means cleaning every surface and item in the unit, and deep conditioning all the wood- furniture, trim, cabinets, everything that is wooden, and can dry out it our high, dry county. It is so nice not having to deal with skint long-terms anymore. No more knocking on doors at odd hours of the day, hoping to catch them at home, no more waiting at the office for them to drop off rent checks, only to finally realise, after your evening is all shot, that they are going to no-show again. No more lame excuses and wild, fabricated emergencies to wade through when you do finally catch them. But then again... typically, short term renters cause almost as much stress, just in another form. While long terms try their best not to be found, short terms are very much there. The last two days have been typical of the rediculousness of short term renters, and may hint at the root of my phobia of being seen as a tourist or a non-local, or even slightly diva-ish whenever I travel. A big group rented four units, and requested an early check-in, in spite of the fact that some of the units were booked the night before their arrival, and needed to be cleaned before they checked in. We raced to get them ready, had most of them done when the whole group pushed their way into the office to pick up their keys. I stopped at the last unit, which our new cleaning crew was still working in, and told them to call me when they were finished so I could inspect it. They weren't fast enough, because as the door swung shut behind them, one of the renters stuck her foot in the door. By the time I got there, it was overflowing with suitcases, coolers, rental skis and snowboards, uptight women, kids of all sizes and shapes, and men who wanted only to grab a beer and find the remote control, and apologise to me for the women. I had almost escaped when the matron of the bunch, a rosy-nosed blonde with big hair cornered me with a complaint about one of the units, which smelled as though it had been smoked in. Would I please do something about that? I offered to drive back to the office and get the ozone machine, if they would be willing to vacate that unit for the next four hours while it ran, thinking that would call her bluff. That would be great, I was told. And please vacuum this rug, as well. It looks as though it wasnt done, she told me, pointing to a bit of fireplace ash on a throw rug. Since it was loosely woven wool and a vacuum would destroy it, I shook it over the balcony for her, nodded politely to the husband, who told me in a quick aside that he didnt see a problem, since the people staying in that particular unit were smokers themselves, then raced back to the office for air freshener and the ozone machine. Half an hour later I was back, to find the offending unit occupied by said smokers, and the matron didnt see why I would think it necessary to evacuate that unit for four hours just to clear the air, when there were smokers in it anyway, and she couldn't even smell it anymore. Didn't I realise how inconvenient that would be for them? ...A small anecdote for you. The season has begun. We have had to deal with calls every twenty minutes- "Is it ready yet?" despite the fact that we tell them that we will contact them when their condo is ready. We have had the refund hunters, planting everything from opened soap bars and gravel in tubs to mouse droppings under sinks and (we suspect) panties in the sheets in order to be able to, with a little luck, get their stay for free. We have had the diaper changers, who need help with everything from finding the grocery store, to wanting more free samples of the items we leave in gift bags for them, to changing lightbulbs that have burned out during their stay. We are not so much exhaused from dealing with these people as we are from preparing for them, trying to anticipate their complaints, trying to not give them any reason to call us. It would be a lot worse had we actually slept and sat down to eat in the last twenty days.

But today, a day that there just happened to be no inspections for me to do, only tons of other stuff, Mr. B. and Marci told me I could take a day off. I am embarrassed to even admit this, but I woke up at six o'clock this morning, and it was so exciting to think about not going to work, and what all i could do with a whole day that i absolutely could not go back to sleep. It has been nineteen days since the last time we had a day off, and we spent that one sleeping, recouperating from a flying trip to Kansas for a wedding. I think we set a new record. Thirty four hours, three meals, a near caffeine overdose, several pairs of painful shoes, and lots of satin, mascara, bobby pins and hugging relatives later, we were back in our own driveway. FIrst thing this morning, I went to the grocery store, determined that turkeys were still far too expensive to make one for this evening, which cleared my plans considerably, went to Keystone and hit the slopes, on snow conditions that were, to be possibly more complimentary that i aught, absolutely deplorable. The runs were icy, the crowds were insane, the lifties were stressed. The U.S. Ski Team are training at Keystone this year, and had a slolom course set up on the main run down to the base, making my favorite runs not very user-friendly. And when I finally got tired of dodging flailing ski poles and took to the trees (at least they're stationary), the snow was so crusted there was no gettin on top of it, and I ducked under a fallen tree and didnt notice a fist-sized branch which caught me right in the noodle with a rude "thwack!" Slapped me right down, and left me with a goose egg and my pants full of ice shards. Suddenly distrustful of the trees, which have treated me so well in the past, I worked against the flow of people and found a completely deserted run. It was deserted for good reason, being one of Keystone's steeper black diamond runs, the moguls were icy but not nearly so hard to dodge as the hundres of two foot tall seedlings and rocks poking through the snow, but it provided me with the most fun I'd had all day. That is, until a gully through a flat spot sent me arse over teakettle (thanks to a special uncle of mine for the priceless visual that phrase inspires) and damaged what few sharp angles my body possesses. I dragged my damaged self back to one of the plastic Adirondack chairs lined up on the "beach", peeled of my hat, coat, and gloves, put my goggles back on to shade the sun, propped up my feet, and basked. Naughty words floated around me, most of them regarding the snow conditions, everyone else saying them so I would not have to, more and more people dragged in, cradling elbows and hipbones, and plopped around me. A cloudbank crept in over the top of Northpeak, and as soon as it blocked the sun, I hoisted myself up, gathered my effects, and climbed onto the luxurious new padding of the Ruby Express back to the frontside of Keystone. Had a six-person chair all to myself, stretched out and had no desire to snowboard anymore. I spent the rest of the day shopping for clothes. And tomorrow at work, I can wear some of them. If one has to go to work, one may as well look good doing it. It was a good day. I must agree with the saying, "the worst day on the slopes is still better than a good day at work."

Backyard Park

We shoveled snow all day again yesterday. Apparently, that wasnt too much, because we girls came home in the evening and shoveled the yard as well, using the snow to make two large piles, one for and approach, the other for a jump. We needed a break from the trilogies. The next door neighbor suggests a half-pipe when it snows again. Can't do it this time, considering we only have a few cubic feet of snow left on the yard. After the warm temperatures today, we are the only yard in suburbia with green lawn. Everyone else's yards are still covered with a foot of snow. Was it a slightly psycho thing to do? yes... were we pathetic and desparate to snowboard? yes... Did we have so much fun doing it we nearly wet our pants from laughing? that too... And the one I know you are all asking, did anyone hurt themselves? Not seriously, but I'll bet it takes long enough to melt that there is always a good chance.

Backyard park

...So we scramble to the top of "The Pile", strap in, and drop off. Considering the length and height of approach, the time spent aloft is not great. But it provides enough lift to be able to try a few tricks that are scary when one is ten feet in the air, landing on rock-hard ice pack, as is the case with the mongo kickers in the terrain parks. Oh, the music? It is a well-known fact that the best tricks are performed in time with punk-rock or raggae. Not a big raggae fan, I am only left with misunderstood punk-rockers and their surprisingly upbeat summations of their crummy lives. Works for me.

In parting, I must quote a sticker I saw on a snowboard the other day at A-basin. "Stupid should hurt" Fitting. After all, if it didnt hurt, how would we know that it was stupid enough to merit doing in the first place?

Too many, too much

We woke up this morning to a foot of snow. God spent a few hours last night covering Summit County up, and we spent all day shoveling back-breaking, dense, heavy piles of the stuff. By turns, I have felt exhilerated by the fact that I am out in it, physically fit enough to be able to do it, glad to be doing a job where the results of my efforts are so readily apparent, and cursing the man who first thought to wrap a horizontal apron of wood around the second story of his house (yes, it would have to be a man) so he would not have to walk downstairs to pop a top and position himself in a cool, breezy spot. Ok, maybe it was a woman, but if it was, it was one of leisure, not one who ever had to worry about falling kids, maintaining the thing, keeping it clean and clear... in places, it was two feet deep, some of the heaviest snow I have moved in a while.
But now we are home, and tonight is a big night. Every year, when the weather moves in and nobody wants to do anything but sit and vegetate in the evenings, we have our trilogy marathon. We start with Star Wars, a movie an evening for a week, then move on to The Lord of the Rings, then Indiana Jones. For comedy, we will force ourselves through the three Austen Powers movies, then for contrast, watch the Terminators, although the first one is the only one actually worth our time. Then, in the spirit of really bad sequels, Scream 1, 2, and 3. Then, we may even move on to the...two-logies? The Mummy 1 and 2, Men in Black 1 and 2, The Borne Identity and The Borne Supremacy, American Graffiti 1 and 2, even though the second one is really a waste of time, sometimes you have to suffer through a bad movie for the sake of continuity... The Man from Snowey River 1 and 2. (The ones who grew up watching them say they're wonderful movies. I've never been able to sit through the first one, let alone the second one. Maybe it's time.) and by then, it is Thanksgiving, and the Thanksgiving Bond-a-thon is on cable, a week that the girls in the house spend in mockery, and everyone tries to imitate Roger Moore's accent. Then, if no one has begun having seisures from too much TV, we may watch TV seasons on DVD, Alias, Lost, 24, Scrubs... and by then it is Christmas, and the twelve days of Bond are back. And this very evening, my friends, is where it all begins. R2D2 is beeping his displeasure from the surround speakers downstairs, the theme tune in the background is one that, after last year's trilogy marathon, is finally no longer running through my head with maddening insistance. For a week, we will be doing really annoying Darth Vader impressions and humming that dang song. I told them to start without me, while I finished up on the computer... almost sacriligious, not being present for the opening of our winter tradition, so I must get downstairs and fight for a spot on the couch. I have included a picture of this cold, miserable place, just in case anyone is wishing for snow at the moment. It is a small portion of the wrap around deck we shoveled before coming home this evening, and the main reason my back is screaming at me to go find a couch and stop hunching over the keyboard. So, goodbye for now! And may the Force be with you...

First turns

It's snowing again. It's sloppy, and the roads are slick, and crusted with salt and sand. It's starting. But the good thing is, the Basin is open. I begged for an hour the other day, stuffed my gear in the back of the jeep, and made my way up there on really bad roads. I only got two runs in, and there were several hundred people on the only run open. The only chair open was the Exhibition lift, taking us halfway up, dropping us off only a few turns from the bottom. But it was good, feeling snow under my board, slipping from edge to edge under a bluebird sky. Scarlett and I went back today. Since we have some extra help in the county right now, we all had the entire day off. The last several Sundays, we have gone to church before work, but today, after nearly thirty days of work for Mr. B, we stayed in bed long after the sun rose, asking eachother just what we were going to do with ourselves, getting greedy with our time off, tempting ourselves with various scenarios. We could go to Denver, we could ask for tomorrow morning off as well and go to Moab, we could sit and veg, and accomplish nothing, or stay in the house and do laundry. It's been three weeks since I last wore my favorite shirt, a soft, thin black teeshirt with a faded sillouhette of a long-haired headbanger on the front, and the words "if it's too loud, you're too old". It's the only skinny shirt I have that is also nightgown-comfortable. It spends no time on the hanger. I wear it the day after laundry day, then it lives in the hamper until it can be washed again. Ok, I admit. I am one of those instant gratification people. I dont mean that to sound dirty in the least, I just see absolutely no reason to push off until later anything that would make me happy right now. Like leaving my favorite clothes on the hanger while I wear something that makes me feel ugly. Anyway... I digress. The one thing that really tempted me to get happy was the thought of more sun, more outside, more snow. I waited until Scarlett got up and offered to take her along to A-Basin. She got a good start last March, got the feel for making careful turns without catching her edge and slapping herself to the ground, and couldn't wait to see if she could pick up where she left off. We got there right in the middle of the late-morning rush, and spent 45 minutes in line before getting on the chair. By the time we got back to the bottom, the line was longer, so we shouldered our boards and hiked up a side run with twenty other people, to the chagrin of the ski patrol. They tried their best to control several hundred powder-high skiiers and snowboarders, threatened a thousand dollar fine and confiscation of ski passes for closure violations, but in mid October, the delight of forbidden turns in eight inches of fresh powder outweighed the threats. Hundreds of tracks led under the ropes and through closed terrain. Another forty-five minute wait, another fifteen minute descent, and we headed home, cold, exhausted and hungry. It was a wonderful feeling.
Too bad our lives arent more about such play and less about running around, frantically trying to get ready for the looming date of December first. Keystone opens on the tenth of November, but the first big event is on the first, when Keystone kicks off it's season with thirty-six continuous hours of skiing and riding. It gets bigger every year. Last year, I actually attempted to snowboard at eleven o'clock at night, as late as I dared to be out, and never made it to the lift. After standing for an hour in line between the progressively more obnoxious man nursing a flask and the comfortably introspective one smoking a bowl, and studying the fake-snow ribbon of death that was the main run down to the chair, I changed my mind and walked back home. In theory, snowboarding all night sounds fun. In reality, it may not be the smartest thing to subject one's self to. I know, that sounds odd coming from the original adrenaline junkie. Make a note of it.
Tomorrow is another day, a big day, back in our real life. Just to show you what you all missed by not being at the Basin today, the picture at the top is of the lift lines.

hiking pics

The weatherman says more snow. We are not ready. The last of our last snow is almost gone from all but the highest peaks. But, everyone says, it is perfect timing. Maybe a few flakes will be visible falling in Denver on monday night, and will be caught on camera, and everyone who watches the Bronco's game will be reminded that ski season is right around the corner, and reservations will flood in. Traditionally, the day after a snowy Bronco's game is a busy day for Reservations.

We are down to five people in the house right now, a slightly more manageable number than six. Now, there are many houses with six family members living together, but not as many with six full grown, well fed adults. We have all been caught off guard by the sheer amount of money that goes into feeding six well-fed adults, and that's just the staples, nothing fancy, no big splurges. A batch of bread lasts a day. A box of cereal, two. Out toaster quit a week ago, and it's almost a blessing. No one eats toast in the morning anymore. After living almost entirely on our guests left-behind food for three years, we had forgotten what it was like to feed ourselves. And we have a month or two yet until tourists start flying in, and have to leave their food behind when they leave. Oh, well. We are adjustable and adaptable.

This last week may have been all the Indian Summer we get. The Yost girls and I went hiking last week. About four miles into the Eagle's Nest Wilderness, by way of the trailhead above our house, is a charming series of waterfalls, pouring over a granite ridge that separates Red Mountain from Buffalo Mountain. After lunch, granola bars and water, eaten with a bit of disapointment that our idyllic spot was suddenly shared by a group of about eight obnoxious young shirtless males and their dog, by far the least obnoxious of the group, we headed up the trail again, anxious to get through the gorge between the two mountians and look out the other side, as well as to put a bit of distance between us and all the coursing testosterone back at the falls. When we got there, a grueling, uphill mile later, we reallised that Red Buffalo Pass lay between us and our view, all that lay before us was a large basin rising up to a snow-covered pass. We shrugged, and left the trail, climbing up the side of Red Mountain to our right, until we reached treeline. (see the picture at teh top of this post.) Amber was determined to go on to the top, Scarlett had had enough. Considering that it was beginning to cloud over, and we had several hours hiking ahead of us to get back home, S. won. A good thing. By the time we dragged ourselves back to civilisation, we were stumbling with exhaustion. It didnt help that we were passed both ways by an especially spry trail runner, sprinting over boulders, carrying running weights, accompanied by a dog that must have been on the same steroids as his owner. We threw a few choice words at his back as he bounced past us. He greeted us with a cheerful "hello", not breathless in the least. I stand by my original observation, there is something not quite right about some of these people up here. Maybe the alien invasion so long feared has started in the high country. Maybe they spend their time in another dimension, where it is possible to run and not be weary, walk and not faint. Maybe they love pain and arew just plain psycho. Whatever it is, I want some.

This was this morning...

Ok, I admit I am not entirely bummed about waking up to 8 1/2 inches of freshies this morning. S'posed to be another foot or so tonight. We are scheming about going somewhere illegal with our snowboards...

This was a week ago....

but still, to think... it was ninety four degrees where we were a week ago! We sat out on the balcony in the dark, wearing bath towels, and soaking up the last of the days heat, letting our sore muscles relax. The best of both worlds, or a taunting teaser, havent decided which...

Ruby the Hendog

It's a hard job, and one that many dogs overlook entirely. Luckily for Ruby's people, Ruby is not like many dogs. She takes her work seriously. Hour after hour in whatever element Western Kansas chooses to throw at her, she can be found, herding her charges around the yard, keeping the flock in a safe, tight huddle, workin it like the working dog that she is. Sometimes she picks one hen and separates her from the herd- flock, that is, her head down, every sense alert, anticipating every move with the savvy of an experienced chicken dog. She keeps a tight ship, reminding forgetful or irresponsible biddies of their place with a gentle nip of the tail feathers, and she rarely sleeps until the last of her responsibility has roosted for the night. She can become a little confused about the end game, and does not always know why she is doing what she is doing or what her objective is, but she is not daunted in the least, even when she is reprimanded for having moved the herd across the road into the neighbor's lawn. In the evening, she drags herself up the steps and in the back door, smelling of henhouse, and collapses in an exhausted heap in her corner, knowing that all too soon, she will hear those words from her people, "check the chickens", and will jump up, so eager to help that she will nearly injure herself in the process, and start the whole thing over. A good dog's work is never done. If there were more dogs like Ruby in the world, jokes like "Why did the chicken cross the road?" would have never been born, and Chicken Little would have never gotten himself into such a mess either, because he would have never been allowed to be idle enough to notice the sky falling in the first place. Here's to good dogs, safe hens, and order on the farm.

lovin those vacations

The fun just keeps on comin', when you have nowhere to be, nothing to do, and wouldnt feel like doing it if you did. We left Silverthorne in a freezing drizzle early last Saturday morning, and before we got to the Clear Creek County line, on the continental divide, snowflakes were blowing through our headlight beams, and skittering across the boat tarp. Felt all kinds of wrong, and completely inconcievable that somewhere, not here, was a warm lake, a balmy breeze, greenery that didnt yet know it was fall. I refused to believe it until nine hundred miles later, I tentatively stuck my foot into water I was sure would be chilly, then waded the rest of the way in, hardly believing such a large body of water could be so comfortably warm.

The boat runs like a demon down there in the lowlands. We didnt realise how adversely the altitude affects it's 130 horses. They didnt gasp and sputter nearly as much as they do at 9,000 feet.

I discovered just how altitude aware I have become, living in a country that counts not only miles, but verticle feet in it's calculation of distance. Somewhere in Missouri, I wondered aloud why every exit sign also had an elevation on it... oh, I was informed, my husband rolling his eyes at my not so brilliant observation, 1,200 feet was the distance between the sign and the exit, not the elevation of said exit.

We spent every possible moment of our week on the water, and only had one rainy day. How about that? Maybe there is something to this karma thing after all. It was cold the day we got there and cold the day we left, but in between, there were some idylic, sunsoaked days. We waterskied till we were dizzy, and invested in a wakeboard which we spent the week trying to master. Wakeboarding is a completely different concept than waterskiing. Waterskiing requires a boat with it's center of gravity incorporated into a flat hull to make the smallest wake possible, and an agressive slalom, speed, and good form is what one exhausts oneself trying to attain. I noticed the "bad boy" ski, the neon green sliver the MEN ride, had a completely different feel on such warm water. On the other hand, a wakeboard resembles in no way the fast turns and even roostertails of a ski. A good wakeboarder spends more time above the water than on it. The point of the wide, flat surface of a wakeboard is to sling it's rider off the swell of the wake, across the wake, to land on the downward slope on the other side. The time spent between launch and landing is what makes a wakeboarder "good". So the larger the wake, the more time spent airborn, the more impressive the tricks and maneuveres, and of course... the better the crashes. There are as many wakeboarders with torn ACL's and just generally bad knees and backs as there are snowboarders. Large wakes require boats with deep V hulls, run barely on plane, slowly gouging a deep furrow in the water. One really cannot ski well and wakeboard well behind the same boat. Considering our seventeen foot runabout is neither a skiboat nor a wakeboard boat, we did our best, softening our knees to absorb the too-large wake on a ski, and trying everything we could to make a large enough wake to allow us to jump to the other side on a wakeboard. (I only made it all the way across once, and then, typical... I was so surprised and elated I dropped the rope.)

We stayed in Branson, where the lodging was cheap, and drove out to the lake every day, where we rented a boatslip for the week. It was wonderful not having to load it on the trailer, but just to tie it up and leave it bobbing in the water overnight. It was just a very humble little boat, sandwiched between luxery cruisers with onboard bathrooms and sleeping quarters, but then, we didnt really fit the profile there either, as was observed by the talkative man in the lawnchair, parked by the boat launch. "Sure you kids don' nade some help there?...Huh! looka that. Yo act lak yuh done that bafore!" Nearly wanted to offend Mr.B. I tell his to embrace his baby face.

The first day we were there, we were still keyed up and on edge, not fully reallising that we were on vacation and Seymour Lodging was nine hundred miles away. Even if there were a crisis, we could do nothing about it. Every day we spent on the water, our shoulders loosened a bit, and we got a little less morbid and cynical. The last night there, we took the boat out to the middle of the lake and shut it off, allowing it to be tossed back and forth on the wind-whipped surface, and watched a red-gold sun set, leaving a flaming trail across the lake, shattered by the waves into a million shimmering splinters. As it dropped behind the blue Ozark hills and caressed the sky with it's last fingers of pale pink, we loaded the boat on the trailer and tied it down, much happier and more relaxed. We didnt even argue over the proper way to tuck it in like we usually do. Vacations are good.

Now we sit here in western Kansas, still nothing much to do... except clean an entire summer's worth of dirt and mouse droppings out of a house that feels more and more abandoned, winterise the boat, winterise the yard, and attempt a cobbled-together repair on a shop door that the wind caved in. Ok, so not entirely nothing. Our vacation isnt completely over yet, but that day feels closer than it did than when we were out watching the sun set over the lake.

now you see me...

The reunion has come and gone, and as i write, I am doing loads of laundry for our next trip. My, we do nothing but play these days! Well, except that we have been a little short handed for the work load we find ourselves juggling, with our housekeepers kids back in school and one last surge of vacationers through the county, blame the fall aspens for that. But this weekend, the first of our winter help will arrive and begin occupying the last bedroom still open in our house. Dont worry, there's still a bed in the den for you, whoe'er you be. But back to the vacation plans- we made non-refundable, non-transferable reservations, the only way we can think of to make it so that our vacation cannot be pushed off indefinitely.

It was good to see all of my cousins, the sweet, the eccentric, and the outright crazy (you know who you are). It was good to do crazy things like swim in the pool at 11:00 pm, in spite of the chilly wind and mist which finally gave in and turned to rain, lay on the Scott Lake Dam at midnight and watch the lights in their rippled reflections across the lake, and have to find our way through the Kosha weeds and yuccas by the light of a cell-phone display, because the full moon was hidden by clouds and no one had thought to bring a flashlight. And all the old photographs were a special treat. Thanks, to you who brought them, and even more thanks for narrating them, and regaling me with a few stories, you know that was a teaser for me. Now you'll have to write these things down for me. (oh, yes, you know who you are...) We only ended up occupying a cabin for one night. I am curious, how many other couples pulled the matresses from their twin beds, threw them onto the floor, spread a sleeping bag over both, and slept like babies? It almost felt like we were being naughty, cuddling in a king-sized expanse of bed surrounded by four very private walls, when everyone else was having to be all communal for the weekend. And the food, oh, my goodness, the food. Ramen noodles have never been so boring as the day we got home.

It has been a very misty, almost surreal day here. Warm, windstill, a touch of moisture, the humity and the sun behind it turning our mountains into odd, muted shades. On the way to work this morning, passing the lake, every minute detail on the surrounding hills was reflected, stretched across a barely rippled surface, weird blues, greens and violets flowing together, and in the middle of the lake, it's reflection appearing a mile long, a single sailboat without a breath of wind in it's sails. I wished desparately for a camera so I could share it.

I took my rollerblade wheels apart day before yesterday, cleaned and oiled the wheels, and had plans for hitting the bike path just any day now. Every day something comes up and it gets pushed off till a more convenient time. But I am feeling the itch to get out of the house, in fact, here i sit in my sports bra and shorts, looking, if not feeling ambitious. So far, havent decided where to go. Tonight may be the night for a run. I am sitting here with my water bottle, trying to make up for a day of drinking nothing except the milk required to wash down my cookies earlier because nothing is more miserable than running dehydrated, and berating myself for not making wiser food choices all day. Oatmeal Scotchies will get me nowhere I want to be.

Now I remember why I used to love running after dark in the winter. I left the house night before last with no destination in mind, and soon was so bewitched by my surroundings I forgot about my feet, which kept carrying me further and further from the house. After dark, the wind dies, and the scent of broken, dying flowers mingles with overtones of woodsmoke. The air is too cold to breath through one's nose, and one finds oneself drawing deep gulps of air through one's mouth, simply because one can, and ignoring the sting. There are two times I find myself running- when I am angry, and when I am going crazy from inactivity. When I am angry, I do not run hard. I do not listen to angry music, because the fact that I am out there is proof that I am trying to shake the feeling. I listen to gospel or folk or bluegrass, and sing along until I am out of breath, and do not turn around until I find that the verbal tirade in my mind has abated and catch myself thinking neutral thoughts, and feel foolish for letting anything get under my skin in the first place. But on nights like tonight, when I feel as though I have done nothing all day, I push my earbuds deep into my ears, and assault them with heavy metal, and run hard with my head up and my hands relaxed. I listen to misunderstood degenerates scream about the unfairness of life until they have me worked into a mood needing to be taken out on the blacktop, then switch to something that fits into the background, and before I know it, have slipped into a state of nirvana, no longer hearing the music or thinking any discernable thoughts, my strides have become as involuntary and painless as my heart beating or my eyelids blinking, and when I reallise how far I have gone, I have a long way home in the dark.

Gotta run...

The weekenders

I am sorry, it has been a while. Fall aproaches with heavy, forboding footsteps, it's icy hand touching all the green things and turning them, well, dead. We are still experiencing some beautiful days, today being one of them, but it gets cold enough at night to warrant turning the heat on. Giant clearances of last year's ski and snowboard stock are popping up outside various retailers, making space for this year's stock.

On the bright side (not that I care to be one of those people) Summit county will chiefly be inhabited by Summit Countians for the next six weeks. This weekend, being labor day, is the last projected rush until Keystone's opening weekend. We will be busy getting ready for the season, endless pre-season deep cleans, inventories, mainenance, purchasing... but no guests except for our long terms. True to Summit County tradition, we will always have the long term renters who must be asked two or three times for a check, be served an eviction warning, then eviction notice, before they can finally cough up the rent that was due last month. We give them a weeks rest, even though this month's rent is already due, before we start the process over.

One reallises how much money actually goes for rent when B. finally gets them to pay, in wrinkled $20, $50, and $100 dollar bills, and he brings home a bulging envelope which is then opened and it's contents spread out over the dining room table to make sure it's all there. One starts thinking about all the things those bills could buy, then one reallises that just that much of our own money gets paid to the guy down the street, then one makes the connection in brutal clarity that life really is one big pointless scramble, we are all just little hamsters on a wheel, not really enjoying life because of all the effort it takes just to live it, and suddenly one feels one's own mortality in a way one should not until one is staring old age and death in it's dripping fangs. And then one asks one's family members if anyone is up for a couple of shots, and offers to slice the lemons, because we all know life gives us plenty of those, and in half an hour, the ice cream is softening, the pop corn is popping, the music is playing, and everyone is relaxed, except for those who get very sleepy when they drink, well, they're asleep. And we know we are contributing to everything that is wrong in a gluttonous society, drowning the threat of depression, then packing it even further down with high calorie foods, but we are comfortable, and we have enough, even though we arent ahead by any means, but we've got to be on the right track, or we we might at least reach that conclusion if we felt like thinking about it...

And this one time- we even took a weekend. That's right. Mr. B. figured, not counting the day he took off when my parents were here, it had been 45 days since he last had any "B. time". We took Friday and Saturday off and drove to Delta (that's Grand Junction area for anyone not so well acquainted with those little towns out in the middle of the orchards and sweet corn patches, on the edge of the adobes which effectively turn the area into no-mans land.) We had it in the back of our minds that a certain 14er, Mt. Sneffels in the San Juans, would need to be scaled at some point during the trip. B's cousin, who, coincidentally, is married to my cousin, just moved to the area, and was more than glad to act as tour guide. Our plans for leaving at the crack of dawn, in time to be back down to a safe 12,000 feet by the time the afternoon showers moved in got nixed by a two o'clock a.m. bedtime (a family of sore losers= a nightmarishly long evening of poker) and the clouds were looming by the time our trusty jeep had growled it's way up to the trailhead. We signed into the registry at 12:30 p.m., and set off through a seemingly endless, sloping field of jagged, moss speckled granite toward an ominously socked-in peak. Half an hour in, the mountain reallised we were there and decided not to be climbed. We turned our backs to the howling wind and pelting rain, looking for hopeful patches of blue in the gray-white of the angry clouds. Lightening struck a peak much lower than the point we were standing on, and the rain turned to slashing pellets of ice. In order to find a tiny measure of protection, we split off the trail and crouched behind a granite ridge until the ice turned back into rain. As it let up a bit, we made our way back to where we thought the trail was- the only indication of a trail was that the moss was rubbed off the rocks- and after a few false starts, found it again and made or way, soaked and shivering, back to the jeep. Of course, my cousin and I took the backseat to allow the men the front, and in a jeep with no windows, only a windshield, they got the full advantage of the heater. We got what felt like an arctic gale for the several hours it took for us to make our way over the 13,000-some ft. Imogene pass and drop down into Telluride on the "scenic route". Other than our honeymoon, when we were admittedly somewhat distracted, B. and I have never spent much time in that area, and we were blown away by the rugged majesty of it. From Ouray, where the four-wheel drive trail started, to Telluride, where we finally hooked up with pavement again, we were completely immersed in the discovery of it. Jagged peaks behind delicate, quivering aspens, cascading falls into deep pools, the road (or trail, depending on your definition of road) winding through open meadows, fording streams, kissing the edges of precipices so sheer as to make one's imagination simply refuse to picture what "could happen". By the time we got back to Delta, we were warm and dry again, but so exhausted from shivering and jostling in the jeep all day, we barely managed a dinner of leftovers, turns in the hot shower, and a few hours of monosyllabic conversation before bed. Saturday, we actually managed to get out of bed only an hour later than was planned, threw some water bottles into Bob's cousin's car, and drove two hours to Moab. After a quick lunch, we shouldered our backpacks and drove into Arches Nat'l Park to "do the tourist thing". We hiked a portion of the Devil's Garden primitive loop. True to form, soon the place reallised we were there, and that this could not be allowed to continue. Right in the middle of a water break, while we were all perched on the ledge beneath Partition Arch, fully planning to hike a whole lot further, the clouds came boiling in from the west, the thunder boomed, and a few sprinkles dropped on us, just suggesting that it was time to scoot. No rain in the forcast, in the middle of a dry spell, but hey. How could it resist the arrival of the rain makers? By the time we got back to the vehicle, the wind was howling between the massive rock fins, flinging sand in our faces, almost as stinging as the ice the day before. We hightailed it out of Arches, and wondered what there was to do, now that it was raining. We drove to Canyonlands Nat'l Park, to the Island in the sky, and enjoyed (from the car) watching the clouds and sheets of rain move across the canyons, allowing brief shots of the magnificent view of the Green and Colorado Rivers far below. Everytime the rain stopped, we jumped out, dodged puddles, and ran to overlooks, to snap our pictures and find landmarks. As we were heading back to the car after one of these scrambles, a pickup truck pulled up next to us and the driver suggested we quickly drive over to the other side- there was a rainbow down below, over the edge. I was the only one who got out, and got completely soaked, but came away with one of the more memorable pictures I have taken. (see the top of this post)

When we got back to town, we dragged our once-again bedraggled selves into Zaks, home of THE BEST pizza. If you are ever in Moab... you know what to do. It's on the main Street, you cant miss it. We discovered it the last time we were there. Beer cheese soup, honey-garlic crust baked in a stone oven, all you can eat. A bit of heaven after a cold, exhausting day. And sustanance for our four hours home. After Grand Junction, I thought I needed to keep my eyes open out of sympathy for B., who must have been a sleepy as I was, but it proved to be completely impossible. Days off are wonderful. Two days, and it was as rejuvenating as a week's vacation used to be for us, back when we were part of the real world, before our lives got so weird and we worked 8-5 and had weekends.

And we get another weekend this weekend. What is this madness? A reunion in Kansas, although our superiors think we will be here in case of Labor-day crowd related emergency. They are a little jumpy about being short-staffed, since the last time we were running on two employees in-county was the busiest weekend of the entire summer. Rather than try to convince them it's ok, we are not nearly so busy this time 'round, we will just keep our phones close, and our commitments few, so that if there is a crisis, we will be in the county within five hours. And after we get home from the reunion, a week of work, then we get our actual vacation- two whole weeks of it. The plan is to pull the boat to Table Rock Lake for a week and enjoy the last kiss of Summer before winter frenzy hits in the high country. If there are reports of unexpected severe weather across the midwest around that time, know that we made it there as planned.

The parents have been and gone, and life is back to normal. I have not been too busy at work, home by mid afternoon most days, but I still somehow feel slightly stressed out. I have been feeling a little pressure to paint, which makes all my creative urges go out the window, and no matter how virtuous I try to be, the house is still a mess and the fridge is still empty. And on nice days, I am stressed that I can't be outside enjoying it, and on rainy days, I am even more depressed- winteriness is only a few weeks away.

But, oh well. Bob has been painting houses, a job he will not let me help him with anymore. A succession of near catastrophes and outright disasters has him scratching his head, not sure how it works that someone who can smear a canvas with a bunch of colors and have it come out looking like something, cannot smear the side of a house with only one color, and keep it off the surrounding surfaces. I think it has something to do with the ADD and the need to express myself, and the lack of self-expression found on a condo wall, and it's just so hard to spread the 1059th stroke with the same tedious precision that was spent on the first stroke. (My mom kept an assignment I did in kindergarten as proof that my attention span has always been rather brief- a paper with twelve churches to color. The first one is nice- stained glass windows, wooden doors, shingles... the twelfth one is nearly obscured by a mad scribble of purple crayon.)

I think we both need a vacation. We'll get one in September. The plan is to pull the boat to Table Rock Lake, by Branson, MO, for a week. By that time it will be pointless to have to boat up here, it will be much too cold to use it.

We took my parents out to "our" lake when they were here. It was really nice, being able to show them a Colorado that does not consist of swirling snow, kids everywhere, everyone stressed to the snapping point because of the winter workload, and piles of holiday food. We went Jeeping, took them up to where the air was thin and there was still snow, and parked and watched the mountain goats scamper over impossible cliffs and rockslides. We ate pizza at Downstairs at Eric's, a basement sports bar/former locals dive that, ten years ago, suddenly became as well known as Breckenridge itself. Not that anyone begrudges the tourists their business, after all the food really is as good as the hype says it is. Dad made a pit stop at Wal-Mart and armed himself with rod, reel, and assorted tackle, as well as a three day fishing license, effectively (he claims) killing his chances of catching anything. Apparently, the fish keep an eye on fishing license sales, and are warned before he casts his first line. He fished a number of streams, but finally started getting some bites at the lake. Three nibbles, one lovely trout. We served him as an appetizer, but only because he turned upside down and stopped moving before we had determined whether or not an only fish was worth keeping. Mom and I swam in the lake, which was livably warm after we had been in it for about ten minutes. The woman even waterskied. I must say, I was proud of her.

The parents are coming!

It's been busy, but i think it's almost to slow down. This weekend, we are not even stressing out over our few check ins and check outs. In fact, my parents are driving up as I write, for a few days respite from the heat down on the flatlands. We have no plan for entertaining them, but it shouldnt be too hard.

I started another blog, devoted solely to my paintings. Most of them are posted on here already, but if anyone cares to look in from time to time, there may be new ones pop up on there that you havent seen here. Ok, they're a little more expensive there, but to those who read this blog, this blog's prices still apply.

We had almost an entire day off today, until after it started raining and we decided to work a little after all. We laid around the house till after lunch, then went to the lake. All of us- every responsible employee of Seymour Lodging was completely out of cell phone range. Bob and I jumped in and swam and water skied until we were exhausted. Actually, we waterskied past that point, because the water was so calm. The other two never got in- it wasnt an extremely warm day, and the water wasn't exactly warm either. As we pulled the boat out of the water, the wind began whipping the lake surface, and the rain started. It felt good to be able to take a hot shower and pull some dry clothes on our cold selves when we got home. We had fun though- i think our last few times at the lake have convinced Bobby to not sell the boat just because we dont use it as often anymore.

More paintings

More time in the studio... these both go for $65, one is 24x36, one is 24x34 (I think)

Summer's almost over...

It is a wonderful thing, living at 9,000 feet when the rest of the lower 48 is suffering a heat wave. I keep subconsciously waiting for summer to arrive. And here it is, the first few days of August. We bought sweet corn from a roadside stand the other day, grown at much lower elevations on the western slope, and it was overripe. How can summer be so nearly gone as to have already produced sweet corn, let alone overripe sweet corn? But here, it rains in the evenings, and the balmy Kansas nights are perhaps one of the things we miss the most. It is almost laughable to watch fellow suburbianites scurry around, planting here, weeding there, tending and caring and watering, when in six weeks, the snow will begin creeping down from the peaks, and cover it all up. The tangled mess of columbines, daisies, and poppies will be gone, and we will walk over their beds, and park on expensive sprinkler systems because we will not reallize where our borders are because everything will be white.

The bears have already switched into frantic forage mode. One attempted a mad dash across a road the other day, through a tangle of bicyclists, coasting downhill at breakneck speed. After a tangled tumble, the bear disengaged itself and scrambled into the bushes. The only bicyclist to actually make contact showed off her roadburn for the papers the next day. There are stories of them raiding parked cars, even refridgerators, inside unlocked houses. (the bears, that is, not the bicyclists).

I must say, the town I live in is so much more obviously exciting than the one I grew up in. I say obviously, because there is excitement in little prairie towns as well, but it is not so readily available to the casual observer. Take the other day, when the Safeway truck lost it's brakes after it had passed the last runaway ramp. it could have continued on over the overpass and slowed on the long uphill stretch all the way up Vail pass if need be, but the rattled driver chose to exit at Silverthorne. The truck, in the process of turning over, lost it's trailer, which also overturned in the busy intersection. No life was lost, although it easily could have been, but the street flowed with soft drink. Two weeks later, the street is still a bit sticky.

Yesterday was a big day for anyone approaching a midlife crisis...ok, that was a cliche, but honestly, how many young guys did YOU see yesterday at the Show 'n' Shine event yesterday, when over 500 Corvettes nosed their way onto Main Street in Frisco? Ok, so it's also a little unfair, since most of the proud, balding owners of said Corvettes have spent a lifetime aquiring the money needed to finance such a hobby. We walked, and looked, and marveled at the sheer amount of money amassed along both curbs and the center of the street. How many small countries could each of these cars feed for a year? How many individuals could one sparkling, mirror-chrome wheel clothe? How about if each bandana'd participant had thrown their hundreds and thousands of dollars which shone out of their chrome incrusted engine components and gleamed from their flawless original paint and peeked from between the oiled treads of their original tires, at something else, say, I dunno, research on how to become independant from the oil which is the life force of this sort of lifestyle?

Ok, now I've waxed cynical, and for this, I am rediculed as the resident tree hugger. I do not claim to be nearly passionate enough for such a title. Only tonight, I took out the trash, soda cans and beer bottle clanking against eachother, and I threw the whole mess right into the dumpster. Shame on me.

But it is the people here that provide the most interest. No real drama is needed if one can be content to people-watch. It becomes a game to peg them as they come and go- to imagine one knows what makes them tick, and what ticks them off. Trophy wife, ski bum, golfing retiree, and then of course, the foreigners. Give it your best shot. Polish? Russian? Spanish, Mexican, Equadorian, Peruvian? What about the varieties of English? England, Scotland, Australia, New Zealand? The youngish restaurant owner in the Subaru, most likely to exhibit road rage to someone with Kansas plates. The muscle bound jock in the A-basin tee shirt, most likely to have his license revoked. The kid with the wires snaking from his ears, with his pants belted on under his cheeks, most likely to fail his pre-employment drug test. The tie dye clad hippies, their guitars and dreadies and those VW van/campers that just wont die. And of course, those of us who come and go, youngish and determined to get their lives and finances in order before they take the next step, such as families. It's a colorful, glorious world. You can't tell me that God made everything but humans as diverse as He did, and now expects the humans to conform to each other's models and ideals of perfection.

And now I've waxed philosophical. It happens.

Half of the rest of our household should be arriving tonight, the other half on Sunday or Monday. We were planning on them being back today, in time to help us get through another hairy weekend. Why must families invariably plan their reunions when we are the busiest? we optimistically thought, if B. and I stayed home, the others could still go, but in the ten days since they left, we have been rethinking that offer. A hundred condos and nine businesses without running water for an hour and a half because one of our condos develoved a torrential water leak, and the entire building only had a single water shut-off (honestly, who designs these buildings?) leading to a very irate day spa owner, threatening legal action on our quaking little selves... I had visions of dye left too long in hair, lost bookings, thousands of dollars we would have to make up in damages. As it was, it cost B. an hour of listening to the guy scream before he revealed it had cost him two manicures and a few bottles of water. That was one day. to say that was representative of our entire week would be a little bit of an overstatement, but it has been possibly the most stressful two weeks of work we have ever done. If we can only make it through one last peak-season weekend, shorthanded, we will take a few days off, leave Summit County, sit somewhere and stare around us with glazed eyes and try to stop quivering. At least it has started another cycle of rainy afternoons. If it were sunny and beautiful yet, and we were unable to enjoy our last few weeks of such sunny beautifulness, I think I might cry. As it is, we've just been a little snappy.

And now I am off, to go create something tasty for just the two of us before we must begin planning meals for four again. I took an ill-afforded morning at home to try to remove the effects of our eat-sleep-and-run schedule the last ten days, and by now, have almost found the floor and countertops again. Maybe I can fool everyone into thinking I am a tidy, virtuous, little wifey type a while longer.

I'm back...

I know, it has been a while. Since the day we biked the Colorado Trail, my bruises have almost completely faded. I have driven to Nebraska for a funeral, and while there, spent some time with relatives on both sides. It felt kinda nice to excersize my independance and drive myself out there, even though I often state that being a passenger is more than fine with me. I picked Mom up in Kansas, and we even got to spend a few hours together. But now I am back in Summit County, and enjoying some of the most beautiful days I have ever experienced in July. It has almost been hot. I took Bob's roller blades (mine are in Kansas) to the Dillon recpath the other day, and skated across the dam to Frisco. It caused me some inner gloating to watch myself overtake the flatlanders on their rented bikes. Of course, that was after I had gone a wobbly mile, trying to make my feet accept the fact that mt toes were a good three inches longer than normal. Mr. B. has very nice, small feet, but his rollerblades were still much too big for me. At the end of my seven miles, I had learned to adjust my stride accordingly, but had rubbed some bothersome blisters. And the skates shimmied drastically on the long, downhill stretches. I have never had to deal with out of control speed, because where I usually rollerblade is in Kansas, where if one wants to slow down, one must simply coast to a stop.

Yesterday, after we got off work at four o'clock, Mr.B. got the idea we needed to go to the lake. Way out there at Green Mountain Reservior where there is no cell service. I know. I was shocked as well. What if the entire company had fallen apart in our absence? After an very thorough safety insepction by the "water gestapo" who didnt recognise our registration as being in-state, which we passed, we pulled out the waterski and Frog went amphibious. The water has warmed significantly, making it much easier to let go of the rope when I got just too exhausted to ski anymore. After I'd had as much fun as was still fun in the very rough chop and boat wash, we idled back into a sun washed cove, surrounded by tall emerald grass and aspens and shut off the boat, and lay around, and slapped mosquitoes, and swam, pushing the floating cowpies out of our way. That single act was sufficient to reconnect us with our farmkid heritage. Feces belonging to any species except those common to the farm is just downright gross, but when it comes from a cow, one uses it as a frisbee, for practical jokes, or simply nudges it out of one's path. It assumes the same attributes as a dirt clod or a rock, simply a wad of grass which has been processed and returned to the ground from whence it came. (The same attitude applies to most anything else coming off of or out of a cow, heifer, calf, bull, or steer. I remember, when we were kids at roundup, having "snowball fights" with...well, maybe that's a story for another time. Lets just say they weren't made out of snow.) But I digress. The cove slightly resembled a good many cowponds we have found refreshment in, and any resemblance to my childhood does tend to lead to digression.

I took my paints down to the Dillon Marina this afternoon (my readers may be wondering at this point if I ever work, and the answer is, rarely past noon, these days...but that will all change in about two months) and sat and painted a small picture of the Tenmile Range and the lake with it's sailboats. The ADD set in after about thirty minutes, plus I got hot and the wind dried my paints far too quickly, so I took the camera and walked down through the marina, and along the footpath, lined with picnickers. I tactfully tried to ignore the frantic father and mother who had lost Kyle, and the chewing-out Kyle recieved when he was located. And then Kyle wondered off again, and refused acknowledge his parent's very loud insistance that he stay with his brothers who were fishing like regular little anglers. This is why, father yelled at the back of the retreating little blonde head bobbing in the sagebrush, your brothers catch fish and you do not. Kyle seemed to have a few obedience issues, but really, I couldnt blame the kid. Maybe he had ADD too. I know I would find it hard to sit and fish when there was so much unexplored ground to be covered.

The window is open beside me, the air coming through it cool and rain-laden. It has been thundering this evening, low growls and crisp cadence reverberating between the peaks, an uninterupted dialogue about things we humans cannot begin to comprehend. I feel small when it does this. But comfortably so. Even when I was small, it was hard to keep me indoors during thunderstorms. It is such a rush to be surrounded by something as powerful and uncontrollable as a summer thunderstorm.

biking the Colorado Trail

Suddenly, I have found myself with very little to do, which has lent itself nicely to the pursuit of die-hard activity. Finally today, I convinced Bobby he should join me. Actually, he would not have, if all of our units had not been in-house, leaving him none to paint or fix, but I'll still take the credit for it. He never tells me before hand that he is planning to take a day off, he probably thinks he will jinx it, so my first clue is, when he climbs out of bed, he pulls on his khaki shorts. He only wears shorts on his days off. Khaki shorts also give me an inclination of his plan for his day off- they are his preferred bike wear. It was exciting enought to bounce me right out from under my very comfortable sheets.

We drove up Keystone Gulch, a very popular mountain bike route, to the West Ridge Trailhead. Bobby kicks my butt when it comes to technical climbs. I spin out, weave back and forth, and if it gets steep enough, have even tipped over backwards. My legs have a colorful array of bruises and scrapes on them from bailing about eight times on the twenty mile ride. We had decided beforehand to merely ride the West Ridge loop, a six mile loop along an 11,000 ft ridge separating Keystone from Breckenridge. When we came to the junction of the Colorado Trail, only two miles from completing the loop, we found ourselves very reluctant to turn back downhill. After all, we had crawled all the way up here, why go down right away? The Colorado Trail wound down to Tiger Run, an outlying part of Breck. We looked at each other, asked each other if we ever thought we would come this way again, reallized my phone was nearly dead and neither of us had any method of payment, should we need to buy anything on the way, and that it would be kind of stupid to extend a six mile ride into a twenty mile one without telling anyone, but hey. At least there were two of us. We turned left onto the Colorado Trail, and before long, were in love with it. Sharp, challedging switchbacks, fast descents offset by uphills just long enough, the trail exceptionally well maintained. At one point, we stopped on a hillside which was bare except for sagebrush and wildflowers, took a deep breath of sage-scented air, and realized that the trail itself was the only sign of civilization one could see. It was just us and the mountains, and a breathtaking view of the Tenmile range.

I contend that one cannot truly experience the mountains if they have any sort of engine beneath them. Others contend that anything mechanical will ruin the experience. I agree to an extent, but with the aid of a lightweight mechanical apparatus known as the bicycle, one can cover much more area, at the cost of a little communion with nature. But ever since I sat down a few years ago with a coffee-table guidebook to the Colorado Trail (time stolen from the condo we were supposed to be cleaning) I have had "walk the Colorado Trail" somewhere at the top of my "things to do before I die" list, along with "get brave enough to eat shushi" and "enter a race". (I would like to say marathon, but I have heard somewhere that we should set reallistic goals. A 5 or 10k would probably be enough.) The Colorado Trail is a 400+ mile trail, winding through the Rockies connecting Denver and Durango. It is an especially beautiful trail, exceptional in the fact that it was built entirely by volunteers. Of course, one does not walk 400-some miles in a few days, so that will have to wait until, well, a lot of things happen. Like retirement maybe, or Mr.B. morphs into a pack-llama who says, "oh, what the hay... life's too short to work every day!"

Tonight, we are stiffening up. We had fun, but we may pay for it tomorrow. We had happy-hour specials at the mexican restaurant, food but no drinks. As exhausted as we were, alcohol seemed like a really bad idea.

The last of our guests left this morning. What will we do without extras milling around the house, without things to show and things to tell? What will I do now that I must hike alone? I have the day mostly off, maybe a small clean this afternoon. I was just talking to the neighbor next door, and she suggested I join a group called the Divas, a womens mountain bike group which meets on Thursdays. In theory, it sounds great. However, a plethora of trivialities leave me a bit skeptical. I'm not that good. What if everyone is better than me? I don't wear spandex. Will everyone else wear spandex? I might even venture outside in it if I could afford the stuff. But I can't, so I bike in my black cotton shorts and hiking boots. Hiking boots- what if everyone else has those funny lookin bike-y shoes? Ok, so if I had enough raw talent to drown out the laughter, I might consider. But if I am really bad, maybe nobody will want to talk to me, and they all know each other and I know no one, and I will be lagging behind, feeling sorry for myself, in my flatlander gear and lack of skill, and I will have ruined something that is so much fun, and all mine, and something that is sacred because it is one of the few things Bob and I both enjoy and are at the same level in, making it so easy for us to connect with each other and the great outdoors.

Later- I didnt do one thing useful today. After I had the house to myself, I paced and roamed around a bit, and fretted about the Divas, and worked myself into a stew of self-doubt, and finally, filled my Camelbak with water, grabbed my bike, and pedaled away with only the smallest notion of a plan. Ten miles later, I found myself in Keystone, wondering what to do next. I turned uphill and rode along a trail which I do not think was a designated biking trail, and dumped myself in a stream. At least I did not sit down. The rest of the day, I sloshed when I walked. With a sureptitious glance around, to assure myself nobody was watching, I grabbed a low-hanging willow and pulled myself back up to my bike. Nope, definitely not Diva material. I prefer to crash without a slew of unnaturally fit super-women type suburbia moms, who look as though they have never even thought about kids, let alone squeezed out the required two or three, watching.

What is wrong with these people? It exhausted us to jeep over trails they regularly ride. They refer to obscure landmarks in obscure basins and valleys down roads less traveled, and everyone knows precisely what they are talking about. They back-slap and guffaw about falling off narrow boards laid across streams or fallen trees, "because we were too lazy to walk across". And they do all these things in spite of having small children and jobs. I think they have a mutant strain of some sort. Joke about mountain women, about leathery necks and faces, hairy legs and armpits, lack of deodorant, who can write their name in the snow with urine as legibly as any man. The truth is, nobody messes with them. They redifine one's notion of femininity. I think they're great. I never would have made a southern belle anyway.

So here I sit, nursing a sunburn on my soon-to-be-leathery face, trying not to stretch my shirt over my very tender shoulders. A tank top over a sports bra under a camelbak did not leave sexy tan lines, only large, round patches of raw skin over my shoulder blades. I feel awful, because my sunglasses were in Bob's vehicle all day. My head throbs and my eyeballs burn. If I had to change diapers yet tonight, cook a large meal, provide maternal comfort to some miniature one, I dont know what I would do.

It rained today. Hard. It would not have been entirely noteworthy, except that we were an hour into the Eagle's nest wilderness, under buffalo mountain when it happened. Bob's brother, his brother's girlfriend, my friend Squirrel and I left for a hike under only slightly gray skies- and it hasnt rained for a day or two. We should have been fine. Then the sprinkles started. Do what they do in the mountains, and keep doing what you were doing, we said. A mile in, the rain began in earnest. The squirrels (except our Squirrel) hid. At last, we determined it had no intention of letting up, and turned around. By that time, we were blowing running water off the ends of our noses, our hair hanging in stringy ropes, soaked all the way to our skin. We trudged as no-nonsensically as possible, since three of us were flatlanders and frantically sucking up our thin air- nobody had been here long enough to acclimatize. A sudden, deafening thunderclap caused a few surprised squeaks. We finally emerged, and I reallized how cold I was when I stuck my hand into the stream and found it quite warm. My fingers almost refused to sign us out of the wilderness registry. Oh, well. It was nearly fun. We decided not to wet B's sister's pickup seats to drive a quarter-mile home, but walked instead. It wasnt like we could get any wetter- we couldnt have been any wetter if we had jumped into the strangely warm Willow Creek. But somewhere along the way, a deranged wild animal (well, ok, maybe it was a patch of wet, and threrefore slick pavement, but she would rather we said wild animal) jumped up and bit Squirrel on both knees. We watched in fascination as the shocked, white holes on her kneecaps slowely filled with blood, then aided by the rain, spilled over and ran down her shins and into her shoes, turning them from athletic-chic yellow Sketchers to dark red. Ok, it was a little gross, but that was the beauty of it. The bedraggled bunch finally stumbled into the front door, amid cheers and jeers, and mock presentation of the "Stupid Awards".

We have had a bit of a revolving door the last few days. Not only was the brother and the girlfriend here, so was a harvest buddy, also between jobs. And Squirrel, taking a break between finishing the last of her prerequisites and starting Nursing School. Tonight is peaceful, nobody is here at the moment, but tomorrow two of my cousins, the two who will live with us this winter and clean for Seymour Lodging, will arrive for a two day visit. We only wish we would not have to be so busy. Too bad that's the nature of a job- one tends to have to be there if one wishes to keep it. Especially this one.

I am feeling a bit humbled. For my birthday, my friends and family pitched in and bought me an IPod- I can hold my entire music collection in the palm of my hand. I would have never splurged and bought one for myself, but since I suddenly own one, I do not know how I survived without it. My time alone does not even have to be spent in introspection with 240 songs at my disposal. I feel very hip, jogging or pedalling along, wires snaking from my ears. Nobody tries to speak to me anymore, as I am obviously unavailable.

The latest craze amongst the Koehns of suburbia is the tennis courts down at the entrance of our subdivision. If the rain lets up long enough, and we are not too dead from working all day, we take our "bats" and a canister of tennis balls, and spend the last of our energy chasing a little yellow blur, as the sun slips below the clouds and bathes the valley in pinks and reds. But not tonight. Tonight, we sit and stare at the walls, eyes slightly glazed as we try to forget our day. We cleaned like we do during the winter. Now I remember why I did not log more evenings on my ski pass. I can think of nothing but a dinner of leftovers, a hot shower and bed.