I am not working thiss morning, or even pretending to work. I am sitting at home by myself. It's my birthday, which apparently, as my dearest Mr.B. told me, as he kissed me this morning, does not mean he can take the day off, although I can. I think it has more to do with the fact that at the moment, most of our properties are occupied, so there is nothing that can be done in them. Although this afternoon, after one of our units dry out a bit after the carpet clean that is taking place as I write, we will go and deep clean it in preparation for a slew of bookings in July. So ok, not an entire day off, but I've learned not to even expect that.

We should be driving through Kansas right now, on our way to a wedding in Texas. B's cousin on his mom's side. We have planned the trip for months, then a week and a half ago, the reservations started coming in, and tomorrow we have far too many cleans to be able to leave. Mr. Seymour, down in Denver, apparently does not reallize that besides managing his in-county operations, we are also his housekeepers. We have had really poor luck finding cleaners who actually show up when there is a clean to do, and the ones who show up sometimes make even more work for us when the guests call to complain about the quality of their clean. With some of his most premier, say nothing of gargantuan, properties turning tomorrow, we could only picture what would happen if even one of our cleaners called in because of a sick baby or a grouchy husband. We would be three states away while everything fell apart here. So tomorrow, while B's family celebrates, we will scrub toilets...

With the last day of June, summer is official. We have had some unseasonally idyllic days, washed in sunny warmth, cooled by that impish mountain breeze. But suddenly, with June ending, the weather patterns have changed to high-country unpredictable. Almost hot one moment, a chilly wind whipping up a thunderstorm the next. Already, at eleven o'clock, the cerulean sky is graying as the "thunderboomers" build. It is windy all the time. I have given up on painting on the back deck. An unpredictable gust is likely to send my canvas right into my face. But the mornings are always beautiful, and they are mine. I run or ride bike into the golf course community that borders our subdivision, and exult as the sudden elevation changes become easier with each consecutive morning. Sprinklers chatter, retirees smile and wave, wildflowers bob and curtsy. After about three miles, one climbs high enough to be able to survey the entire valley, the manicured greens directly below, the town of Silverthorne, the interstate which separates it from Dillon, the lake, dotted with tiny sailboats. Beyond that, the emerald runs of Keystone, and further still, the continental divide. And in the mornings, it's all mine.

I think there are several Bertrams who frequent our backyard. There's red Bertram, and gray Bertram, and gimpy Bertram. And the other day, Bertram brought Beatrice to romp in the backyard. Even scraggly and skinny, you've gotta love foxes. We have no kittens or chickens for them to threaten, so we are free to be as delighted over them as we wish.

Ok, I am going to go find something to do which would qualify as useful. Have a wonderful 4th.

A birds-eye view

We took the Jeep up Saints John Road, to Glacier Mountain today. We didnt make it all the way over, because of a lingering snowfield which swallowed the trail, but we turned around at a wonderful viewpoint! In case I have left you in the dark geographically a time or two, here are a few landmarks to help you navigate your way around the Summit with me. Click on the picture to enlarge.

An explanation

As Mr. B. is fond of saying, "everything I own is for sale... at the right price!" Well, maybe not entirely true. But certainly everything in my "studio" or should we say corner, is. I am posting these paintings here, not to shame anyone into purchasing them, but rather, it seemed a really lazy, cheap way of making them available. These were all painted in the last few months. I finally have the space oil painting requires, but it has been years since I have played with them- the one oil in the bunch, the 24x36 mountain scene, may still be revised quite a bit, as it is not entirely up to the standard I have in mind for my oil paintings... I need a lot more time to reaquaint myself with the way oils work.

Back to the studio

Winter in Dillon Valley, 16x20, acrylic, $30 Utah landscape, 20x24, acrylic, $45
Rocky Mountain landscape, 24x36, oil, $65
View of the La Sal mountains from The Windows, Arches Nat'l Park, 20x24,acrylic, $45

defending champion

I knew it was idiotic, but it had to be done in the name of, well, the thing which motivates a very large number of idiotic things. Being first. We are still experiencing the tail end of peak run-off, the lake was full, the morning was beautiful, and the glassy surface beckoned. There was nothing to do but the obvious thing. I put it off until the wind picked up and whipped the glassy surface of the lake into something resembling the surface of the Kansas lakes we are used to skiing on- I knew it would be cold. But as Mr.B. turned the boat toward the shore, I found myself digging for the ski rope, and heard myself proclaiming I would water ski, in spite of the fact that three weeks ago, most of the water in the lake was nestled in some high mountain crag in the form of snow. I am psyched- it was one of our biggest worries, that we would not be able to have the sort of sun-drenched, waterlogged fun we had in Kansas in the summers. Ski I did, after easing myself into a lake which turned my extremities numb before my ski planed. Call me crazy, but have YOU been in the water yet? Looks like I get the distinction of being the first one in the water, three years running. The most frusterating thing about my record of wins is that nobody cares, nobody launches themself off the bow in order to break my record. Not only does it go unbroken, it goes unchallenged. I have married into a very complacent family. I race to the summit of a twelve thousand foot peak, and between gasps, turn around to gloat my victory... to find that no one else is playing. I tie my hiking shoes, thinking I will shame someone out of the house, but they just ask me if I have my phone. Oh, I love them dearly, every one, but they're just so darned... mature. Oh, well. I still do my victory dance, because deep down, I know they wish it had been them rubbing feeling back into their fingers and toes.

We made the trip to Kansas without Mr.B. The good thing was, since we got back, he has not touched the playstation. I have a feeling they became very close while we were gone. Marci and I drove down Tuesday, got there in the evening, and the plan was to come back the next day. The next day was so windy and hot, it just put everyone into a bad mood in no time. My father in law had agreed to pull the boat to Colorado, while Marci and I followed in his car, and he decided, as badly as he wanted to leave Western Kansas, there was no was no way he was pulling the boat through wind we could hardly walk straight in. We spent the day loading everything we might possibly need (and several things we couldnt possibly) into the boat, and left the next morning.

It was an odd experience for me, being one of the girls. We slept in the house Kayla is renting in town, and went to bed far too late. I slept on the couch, which I rather enjoy for some reason, and have not done for four years. Mr.B. agreed, when I got home, that while he missed me, it was kind of nice being able to play at being his own man for a few days.

The other day, I tightened my hiking shoes, packed a backpack with the essentials, and did some for-real hiking on the trail by our place. It took me about three miles into the Eagles Nest Wilderness, and it was only on the way back I discovered how faintly the way home was marked. The mosquitos held a banquet on my arms and legs as I took first one wrong trail, then another. But now I know the trail which leads out is not marked at all. I did not realize that on the way in. The evening was getting rather chilly as I dragged my aching heels out of the forest, and signed out of the wilderness registry. I am a flatlander. The mountains are never comforting or safe for me. My forays into them are driven by a need to be awed and scared, rather than a need to spend time alone, or to feel sheltered. They are always borderline menacing, and I walk quietly, and feel small. I have no desire to master them in all the ways people do, by climbing them, by photographing them, by walking the entire length of them. I face my fears there, but always there is the knowledge that I am indeed taking my life in my hands, and if something should happen to me out there, my family may not have the closure of knowing what became of me. It really does make me a little nervous to hike alone. But it is hike alone or stay home. What's a girl to do?

Yesterday, I finally convinced my husband to take a partial day off. It has been fourteen days straight for him, putting out fires, appeasing guests, juggling maintenance items and the various contractors who can take care of them. I almost had to get really demanding to get him to do it, but in the afternoon we loaded the bikes onto the jeep and drove to Keystone. The plan was to jeep to a good bike trail, then get out and ride, but the more ground we covered in the jeep, the less we felt like biking, so the bikes stayed on the Jeep and bounced over ruts and rocks and through trees with us. It was fascinating driving over the runs we ride over in the winter, and know every curve, every bump, every drop. In the summer, they are a jumble of rocks and small trees, and unimaginably steep. How on earth do we straightline them?

We did unload our bikes when we got back to Keystone proper, and took them on a dusty singletrack through the sagebrush and wildflowers. It was a nice easy ride, although threatened by an approaching thunderstorm. The last portion followed a trail used by the Keystone Stables, much to the disgust of Mr.B., who does not hold the same fond memories involving the smell of horse poop that I do. It's sad, I know, that such a pungent odor could instantly take me back to some of the best, and worst times of my life. Did I really spend two years coming to an understanding with that feisty sorrel mare? Another two aboard that massive thouroughbred gelding? And the sweet little appaloosa, who was never mine, but lived at my house to keep the other two company, who was completely blind, but trusted me implicitly whenever we left the corral... I really miss 'em. That's the person I wanted to be. Too bad I had to grow up.

sucumbing to suburbia

Who would have thought it would come to this? The Koehns of Dillon Valley East, of Snowdance Manor, of Key Condo and whatever other tiny apartment we have called home, have succumbed to suburbia. I sit by an open upstairs window in our somewhat feng shui’d new abode (the last people to live here must have been believers and left dozens of stickers with Japanese characters and symbols in all the right spots) and try not to listen too carefully to the neighbor’s conversation as they soak in their hot tub a few feet away. Upper-middle class neighbors walk their dogs, bike, and push baby strollers past our house. They park large SUVs in front of larger and even less economical houses, water their lawns, and race each other to see who can mow them first. They have block parties and spacious front porches. We are gasping and twitching a little, having landed… well, I would say like a fish out of water, but the simile really does not fit, seeing as we have gone from the murky, crowded muddle of apartment life to a crystal, clean, spacious fishbowl. As would any space-spoiled American aspiring to live above their means, I am loving the house. Coin laundries and bike storage up three flights of stairs are a thing of the past. The house itself has already spoiled me to the point of hardly considering apartment living as an option ever again. As for living on American Dream Drive, well… I will adjust.
The house borders designated open space, a delightful jumble of willows and aspens, out of which, on rare evenings, Bertram the resident fox emerges to check back deck barbeques for forgotten morsels. The neighbors tell us that occasionally it will also yield a friendly visit from a scavenging bear, and rarely, even a moose will take a leisurely stroll through the backyard. Personally, I prefer that Bertram tell his friends to stay away from me as I lounge on our elegantly understated deck furniture, the reclining canvas camping chairs we salvaged as they were preparing to make their final journey, to the city dump. The border of the Arapahoe National Forest is a short jog down the road, with yet another trail I shall have to add to my list of favorites. It is magical in a way my others are not. While my other favorite trails creep softly through dense forests which moan with old age, and are comforted by the stream’s voice talking to them in the same language they have conversed in since the first trickle of water found its way through their gulch, this one is leaping with new, young, fragile life. It dares to climb, through an airy forest, winding close to the edge to assure itself of the world beyond. Wild strawberries, roses, and Indian paintbrushes crowd close, begging for attention. The floor of this forest is emerald, not the enduring gray and brown of the valley floors. But now we come to the drawback (I told you I’d find one). The portion of national forest surrounding our subdivision is designated wilderness. This means anything with wheels is strictly forbidden. My bike has gone five days without me. I give it a reassuring pat as it leans against the wall, and as I climb into the jeep, tell it I promise, tomorrow…
After we finished cleaning one of our properties the other day, we pulled the trusty Suburban out of the garage, and out of a big puddle of oil. It wasn’t a very life-threatening leak, but severely affected the way the brakes operated, so it had to go to the shop. We were planning on taking it to Kansas this afternoon and loading it up with whatever we might need in the next two years in this house. The kitchen is unfurnished, so I could actually use all the handy little wedding-gift items that are sitting in drawers back in Kansas. And Bob wanted to hook onto the boat and haul it back, because the icy but calm water of the Dillon Reservoir beckons him every morning when he drives to work. But we cant really blame the Suburban. It has held together through a quarter of a million miles for it’s various owners, and has earned the right to balk a bit. We just hope the cost of keeping it alive will not have to exceed the cost of vehicle payments. Now it appears Mr. B. will not be able to go back to Kansas, although Marci and I may go by ourselves tomorrow.
This house came furnished with a wide screen TV and surround sound, capable of an alarming amount of decibels. I thought this would be a plus. That was before I remembered the Playstation. Now, our collection of games used to consist of mostly auto-racing, and inevitably, The Simpson’s game. I can handle screeching brakes at full volume, and Homer’s occasional “doh!”. But lately, guests have been leaving a lot of rather violent video games in condos. They very rarely call about them, so they all must be taken home and demo’d by B. It’s hard, but someone has to do it. Last night as I sat out on the back porch, machine guns clattered, things exploded, people screamed. Our poor neighbors. It seems it would be an utter waste to turn the volume down, although last night as my feet were being massaged by the vibrating floor, I went over and turned it down myself, much to the consternation of the video game head in the house. Of course, this stage may not last forever. Once he conquers the games, he will not play them again for a long time. Unless our guests keep leaving them… The next big thing is getting cable hooked up for the tv heads in the house. I am sure the volume will be no less blaring when favorite shows come on. This is where I find myself at a disadvantage. After all, I was the one raised as a Mennonite. When we played music, it could not be audible beyond the room it was being played it, lest someone catch us with it. I am perfectly comfortable with silence, besides, I do not trust my taste in all things pop culture to even wish for everyone to know what I am watching or listening to. This family has very strong opinions about what constitutes "lame".

Intro

Hello to those dearest to me, those who actually care enough to look in on the comings and goings of a somewhat warty, mostly bewildered, but very communicative Frog. For those of you not entirely aware of the connection, it seems "freaky green eyes" and a very wide mouth, as well as, apparently, a few personality attributes I posses, could earn me no other nickname. It is one that has stuck as stubbornly as the most stubborn wart on a frog's back, until I have become somewhat attached to it and must embrace it as part of my identity. Anyway, if you have been receiving newsey little tidbits via email, I have decided to make them accessible here, so that not only does one not need to feel overwhelmed by the amounts of ribbets their emails contain, one can come and go as one chooses. I am hoping there is a place on this site for you to post as well, and this can become a place where all of my nearest and dearest can touch base.