Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts

Friday, November 27, 2015

Home's Where the Heart Is

Outtake from the Family Photo Session

Fall Transitioning to Winter
The Murder Moves In
Decorating for Thanksgiving
Silent Pond
Kitchen Turkeys
Kyle on Schweitzer
Cabinets & Pond Oreille
Schweitzer Ski Village
Kyle, Drew & Allison
Castle #1
Castle #2 Kitchen
Castle #2 Bed
Collection in Castle #1
Help With Author Headshots
Table of Love
A Lasting Gift of Love
Knowing  the kids are all coming home is the best feeling in the world. The empty house afterwards is one of the worst. Not unlike the cycle of life, home beats with a heart.

Our barns are bursting with rounds of wood and we make a run to WinCo in Coeur D'Alene for the best deals on food in the region. My ripe pumpkins await the oven, a dream I had all summer that we might all gather for pumpkin pie.

By the time the migratory birds move out, the cold settles in along with our winter guests, a murder of crows. Elmira Pond is silent, a shell of ice as if it were incubating until spring. Crusty snow fills the pastures and reveals the trails of wildlife. One of our big bucks is bedding down beneath the hemlock outside our bedroom window. I try to see him in the moonlight, but he remains shadow.

The Midwest children arrive on Sunday with beer, games and love. Allison and Drew have gifted me with their presence and that of Kyle's. They bought him a plane ticket with their mileage points and drive from Houghton, Michigan to pick him up in Menomonie, Wisconson where he's working on his masters in IO Psychology. They fly in from Minneapolis, Minnesota to Missoula, Montana where Brianna lives. They drive three hours to Idaho, crossing their third time zone and fourth state to get here.

I'm blessed with a happy heart.

My house is filled with good cooking and laughter. The games begin, and I serve Christmas fudge out of holiday sequence, while getting our 22-pound turkey drunk on Clean Slate Riesling. It's our favorite brine that even wins the approval of Chef Josh when he and Brianna join us later in the week.

Time stands still and I hear the beating heart. In between games of Dixit and Catan we eat and interview. This year we are eggless, having discovered that it is the culprit of Allison's food imbalance. I got so good at holiday cooking gluten-free and dairy-free that egg-free has thrown me for a loop. We eat squishy pancakes and I later learn from Josh that tapioca is essential to egg-free cooking and baking. He even shares with us his egg-free squash nog and pies.

The interviews are the result of a new writing gig, one that gets me out and about the Panhandle of Idaho to catch stories of businesses, entrepreneurs and lifestyle. First we go to my favorite breakfast house to be stood up for my first interview. The next place is closed. Worried, I call my third interview because he lives on top of Schweitzer Mountain. He's still willing to do centerfold shots, he tells me. It's a joke, but I'm grateful for back up nonetheless.

We climb the switchbacks above Sandpoint and park the car on an icy plot of flat ground at the ski resort which dominates the mountain. Far below the fingers of bays weave in and out of mountains and forests. From our vantage point we can see the craggy peaks of the Cabinet Mountains and the expanse of Lake Pend Oreille. My third interview of the day shows up in his truck to take us to his castle.

The owner is a character and a delight to interview. And what could be better than getting to tour a mountain top castle with three of my grown kids? Experiencing an earthquake in the middle of the interview. It rumbles like an avalanche and shakes the stone structure. My son-in-law is a geologist and he gets excited -- it's his first quake. Now all he needs to do is see lava and stand on a glacier.

While it's not lava, there's hot water surrounding the entryway of the main castle like an interior mote. We get a peek at a collection of authentic ancient armor and arms, a real Viking's sword and Revolutionary War era pistols. We even cross a drawbridge to enter the main castle. Yes, there are two. One is our host's home and the other is a guest-castle. For a nightly fee, you can sleep in style on a mountaintop in northern Idaho and ski to the biggest resort in the state. Earthquakes are random and not guaranteed.

Brianna arrives with Josh and their dog, Barley. We break out the Cards Against Humanity and laugh ourselves silly. Josh perfects the drunken turkey, showing me how to brown it at the end. We serve all the trimmings, the last of my garden, and make a killer gravy out of drippings, potato water, giblets and Riesling. I forget to save back wine and I make everyone tip their glass to the gravy. We have a red wine for dinner, but the turkey likes his Clean Slate.

We are so full we hold off on the pies until breakfast.

It's six a.m. and I'm whipping cream, holding back a flood of sadness. Soon the beating heart will diminish to a murmur. Already I hear the kids rising, packing. The Midwesterners have an afternoon plane to catch in Missoula; Brianna works tonight; and Josh is going elk hunting. We eat left-overs and pie, huddling around coffee and the woodstove. They load up the two cars. Drew and Josh ride together and I envy the car that gets to hold my three children for the duration of the trip.

My heart breaks as they leave no matter what I tell myself.

Todd and I sit by the fire holding hands. Brianna rushes back in -- she forgot her purse. We laugh and I try to hide the tears, that flow again once the door shuts. Todd retreats back to bed with the dogs, and I clean up, needing physical activity. I know I need to hit the keyboard with five articles due in three days and two more interviews to hold, plus the one I missed.

Upstairs I find a heart, shaped from Allison's turquoise scarf on top of my computer with a love note to watch over it for a while. She knows it's one of my favorite colors and I really liked her scarf. She and her sister used to make off with mine all the time. Now it's my turn.

I hear the heartbeat return and know the truth -- while there is yet love, there is life.

It pulses more rapidly when we are all together, but home is where we are, thinking of loved ones, welcoming loved ones and even missing loved ones. Soon I'll decorate for Christmas and get ready to welcome one of Kate's granddaughters to my home. I'll get to see Kate's family and share an unbreakable bond of love. I hope this spring to get to visit Todd's parents again; in May to see my son receive his masters; to see Allison and Drew's new house in Michigan; to see my cousin's son graduate high school; to visit Kansas for love; and visit Brianna and Josh in the off-season in Montana.

Home will go with me. And so love continues.

Sunday, October 19, 2014

Where the Grass is Green

Fairbury Cemetery
Prairie View From Fairbury Cemetery
Green Grass of a Peaceful Setting
Mary
Common Grave
Finding the Graves
Recording the Story
Finding My Granduncle Cob
East Station at Rock Creek
On the Trail of a Story
Clipped green grass covers the graves of my 4th-great grandaunt and 4th-great granduncle in Fairbury, Nebraska. The setting sun reflects colorful shafts of light, illuminating the long shadows of trees and gravestones. It's peaceful as a Victorian park; a proper resting ground for a couple who endured the best and worst of times in their decade of marriage.

The sun shone down with gladdening rays/ Sweet breezes fanned its groves/ and cheerful birds beguiled the days/ In gleeful songs of love. ~ Jas. McC.

Who knows where the grass is greener? Ask a horse or a heifer and they'll tell you it tastes sweetest beyond the fence. Ask a man with an itch to seek a better life or more excitement and he'll tell you it's greener out west. Ask a wife betrayed and she might remain as tight-lipped as the mistress, but with eyes red-rimmed from crying.

I'll see the forest like a dove/ And weep there for his sake,/ And wail my disappointed love/ Until this heart will break. ~ Jas. McC.

Having traveled from Idaho to Nebraska to find this resting spot, I look at the grave of Mary Green McCanles Hughes and read what is omitted from etched granite. Her stone renounces all her surnames. She was born a Green in the Blue Ridge region of western North Carolina. At the age of 17 she married D. C. McCanles and before she was 30 she was a widow on the tumultuous prairie with five children to raise. She married John Hughes a few years later, had a daughter and then divorced him.

Her granite gravestone reads simply, Mary.

Yet, telling beyond her name is that she still felt connected to the North Carolinian man she loved and married as a mountain girl. Despite the betrayal, the stunning death, the Awful War, the tribulations of pioneer homesteading, she still lay claim in death to her position: wife of D. C. McCanles.

May some kind Seraph on his flight/ Light on our earthly plain, In rapturous love our souls unite,/ And bring past joys again. ~ Jas. McC.
Mary's grave settles into the lawn next to her husband's. If you didn't know the story, it might be odd to see a single gravestone etched with the names of two men: D.C. McCanles and James Woods July 12, 1861. That's it. No claim to fame such as, "First man shot and killed by Wild Bill Hickok" or "Notorious Gang" or "Cheats on wife and gets shot."

 But woe to her that stabbed my peace,/ And crushed my youthful joy,/ My sorrow and my tears increase/ And my fond hopes destroy. ~ Jas. McC.

I'm going to tell you the story...but not today. It's an historical work of fiction called, Rock Creek. And I'm writing it from Elmira Pond after years of tinkering with research out of curiosity. Both Mary and D. C. McCanles are related to me through both my Green and McCanles lines so I've known about the incident for a while. It was through writing flash fiction that I began to see a story emerge.

My big questions revolve around greener pastures. Why did D. C. have an affair? Why did he leave North Carolina? Why settle at Rock Creek? Why did Mary follow? To understand D. C. and his women is to better understand why D. C. and Hickok came to violence.

Where the grass is greenest is where the story holds its enigma, waiting to be explored and understood.

NOTE: Verses are excerpts from poetry by my 5th-greatgrandfather, James McCanles. He was the father of D. C. whom I call Cob in my WIP. Cob is a family nickname, short for his middle name Colbert. The poetry is from my own personal collection, a gift from my Grandfather Sonny, along with his research and notes about the 1861 incident. Photos are from my recent trip to Nebraska. Thanks to my research companions for finding and documenting these graves with me.

Monday, September 22, 2014

Tracking a Black Sheep

When a critter crosses the yard leaving only a trail, honestly I can't tell you if it was a wooly bugger or a wolf. I might know if it was a moose by any droppings, but then again, how to tell the difference between moose and elk pellets?

E. P. Mills
Yet when it comes to tracking down a black sheep in the family tree, just call me "Scout." For years I'd been following the faint trails left behind by James B. Mills, the youngest brother of E. P. Back in the 1800s it was fashionable for men to go by their initials and James B. was often noted in documents as J. B.

Just who are these Mills men, anyhow? Edward Payson Mills was my husband's 2nd great-grandfather. I know as much as anyone can know about the life of this man down to the two sons who died in infancy and were buried in obscurity in the cemetery for which he served on its inaugural council. I can tell you how many times he purchased the mill property in Elk River, how he met his New York wife in St. Anthony, Minnesota and on how many church boards he served. I know where he was born, every place he lived, who his parents were, where his children went and where each of his siblings is buried.

Except. J. B. He was the generation's wandering black sheep.

James B. Mills
The prodigal son is often regarded as the one who slips away into culture counter to the morals of his family of origin. And the Mills family--New England puritans--had high standards regarding business, faith and education. Their father, James Harvey, was so convicted about the ills of booze that he dedicated much of his merchant column in the 1850s Faribault newspaper to the prices of commodities and the closure of the "beer establishment" across the river.

Whether or not J. B. liked beer despite the family abstinence, can't be confirmed. Black sheep are not always immoral; sometimes they are just less successful than other family members.

The eldest of the Mills quartet of this generation was Susan Mills. She married George Albee before the family removed from the Vermont/New Hampshire border to Beloit, Wisconsin in 1846. She and George started a family in what would become Madison, WI. In Beloit, E. P. and his younger sister, Octavia graduated from the brand-spanking new Beloit College, founded by men from Luneberg, VT. E. P. left Beloit in 1852 to teach school in St. Anthony, Minnesota Territory.

St. Anthony and its magnificent river falls of the upper Mississippi, choked with white pine logs, was just getting started as a community. Youthful and enterprising, E. P. was brought into the progressive fold of other New England businessmen and he partnered with Zebiron Eugene Beauharnois Nash (yeah, let's just call him Z. E. B.). The two men founded a mercantile store, and got involved in bringing culture (sans alcohol) to the territory of Minnesota. Politically they aligned with sharp-tongued newspaper editor, Isaac Atwater and got involved in buying land. Atwater, by the way, bought the land that would one day be called Minneapolis  and he would one day be called Judge Atwater.

E. P. bought land in Faribault and Z. E. B. bought a boat. Not just any boat, but the Northern Star: a state-of-the-art steamer built above the falls. It traveled upriver to a place where Ard Godfrey built one of his early mills, lumbering on the west side of the Elk River and flouring on the east. He sold it to E. P. Mills who then sold it to George Albee, his brother-in-law.

Stata Mehitable Mills
James Harvey followed his son to St. Anthony and arrived in 1854 to take over the mercantile. That allowed E. P. to go down river to his Faribault property and establish another. Octavia and Z. E. B. hit it off and St. Anthony held a huge celebration for their marriage. E. P. met the visiting younger sister of Isaac Atwater's wife, Permelia, and followed her back to New York to properly marry Miss Stata Mehitable Sanborn (I'm not making up these names).

It's not always easy to be the baby of any family. We can only wonder what was going on in the mind of 17-year old James B. His siblings were caught up in the whirlwind of the advancing communities of Minnesota (soon to be a state), marrying into proper families, starting more businesses. Did he feel left out? Was he ready to be grown up before his time? Or was it all boring to him?

Next we see James B. in a fireman's hat and coat with a buttoned-up collar. While his hat reads Excelsior, the town by such name didn't exist yet. It could have been a private company. His eyebrows are much bushier than his brother's and while they have a similar dented chin, James B. looks more intense.

Congregational Church of Faribault
By 1860, the Mills were secure and active in Minnesota. Octavia and Z. E. B. were living in St. Paul and had a live-in German servant; Susan and G. C. Albee were running a merchant business in Faribault and also had a live-in domestic; E. P. was operating a family farm that employed  laborers and sold product to his father J. H. who was running a store and teamsters. All three men were active in the civil duties of community and donated land and money to build the Congregational church and a college that is today, Carleton.

And James B.? He was fitting into the family portrait at that time. He's north in the Red River Valley, 22-years old and farming a huge swath of land and also employed a driver to take goods to market. What those goods were we don't know--it could have been hay, lumber or cash crops. It was dangerous to live that far out and the Dakota Conflict started in 1862, a year after the Civil War began.

Only Z. E. B. served in the War. He did so as a blockade runner, having rebuilt the Northern Star south of the falls and ran it to supply Union forces down the Mississippi. With war raging on the prairie, Z. E. B. running blockade, and James B. out on the prairie, everyone else holed up in Faribault. Between 1863-1866, the married siblings of James B. collectively lost five children to illnesses such as diphtheria.

By 1863 James B. was contracting to haul goods and by 1865 he had a store in Stearns County, a freight business, a wife and son, Jas. B. Jr. He was bright and able like the rest of his family. Other than pushing out into the prairie, he didn't seem a black sheep at all. But things go down in James B.'s life after 1865.

Elk River Flour Mill
After the wars in the south and on the prairie, the Albees took over the Elk River mills. The Nashes took their steamer downriver and opened a hardware store in New Orleans. E. P. and Stata stayed on in Faribault and had another child after losing two sons. J.H. continued to run the Faribault store. Then disaster hit: an accident at the Elk River mill took the life of G. C. Albee, leaving Susan widowed with five children under the age of 10.

James B. responded and went down to Elk River and helped his sister run the business. J.H. moved to Elk River to be closer to Susan. He started the Elk River mercantile. In the meantime, James B. and his wife Martha, had another son--Harry Lee Mills was born in 1867. That had to have been hard on his wife, Martha, to be left home alone while James B. was taking care of family. Why didn't he take her with him?

Now what confounded me for years as a tracker was the age difference between Harry Lee and Jas. B. Jr. First Jas. B. Jr. was older in the Territorial Census records, then younger. After 1870 the brothers disappeared altogether. In 1880, James B. was living with his parents in Elk River, helping with the store. He's listed as divorced. Several documents between 1870-1880 list James B. as a wild card, roaming all over. He went to Texas where the Nashes went to open up another hardware store. He pushed cattle, learned to make saddles, and returned to Elk River on short visits.

James B. was in Elk River long enough to complete a biography for an 1880 publication that recounts area pioneers. He mentioned his life on the prairie, his business efforts in Minnesota, helping with the family mill and his travels around the state of Texas. Not once did he mention a wife or children. James B. ran his saddle and harness shop only a few years in Minnesota. After that, his trail grows faint.

A Photo E. P. Sent to Friends From Texas
We hear about James B. in the obituaries of his siblings. Sometimes he was in Texas, other times in Montana. He visited Octavia, but not E. P. Although E. P. and Stata spent time in Texas later in their lives so maybe they did see James B. there. In 1900 the Census records James B. in Fergus County, MT as a gold miner (my son was born in Fergus County, MT 91 years later; small world when two roving Millses meet up). James B. showed up for Thanksgiving at Octavia's in 1907 as the society pages of Fort Worth records and the 1910 Census shows him in another part of Texas. No more marriages or children.

Octavia passed in 1922 after Susan and E. P. and it's the final mention of James B.--the sole surviving sibling residing in Billings, MT. That's it. The trail ran cold. I've looked at Billings, Montana inside and out for a grave marker, obituary, even the 1920 Census. Nothing. Where do you go when you are the last of your siblings and you've not set down roots anywhere?

Fast forward to last year. A genealogist named Betty reached out to me, asking what I knew of Martha J. Wyman. She had been James B.'s wife. Particularly, she wanted to know when they divorced because Martha remarried and she was trying to determine if the second marriage was before or after the birth of Frank James Lyon. I didn't know about Frank James Lyon. I didn't know about the second marriage. New tracks emerged!

Betty sent me an 1881 Census record for Canada. I never thought to look in Canada, but there on the Census record was Martha, her second husband, Harry Lee "Lyon" and Frank J. "Lyon." Remember that birth order that had puzzled me? Well, this census record matched the 1870 census record exactly--Harry was listed as the older brother. I did some more digging and a 1900 census record which asks mothers to list the number of children born and number of children living. Martha listed three born, two living. A-ha!

Jas. B. Mills Jr.  born in 1865, died in 1868. Harry Lee Mills was born in 1867 and the second Jas. B. Mills Jr. was born in 1869. James B. had three sons, not two. I can't imagine the pain of losing a child and I question who had the bright idea to name the third son after the first when the pain of his death still had to be raw. According to 1870 documents, James B. was already out of the household, but according to the 1870 Census he was still listed as head of house with Martha and two young sons.

Faribault County Court House does not hold a divorce decree, but it does have a quit claim document that turns over property in Faribault from James B. Mills to Martha Mills. It's dated 1873. James B. had been in Texas over two years by then. Next, I found an April 1874 marriage record for Mrs. M. J. Mills to Wm. Henry Lyon. Betty then found the will of William Lyon, leaving sums and property to his two "step-sons" in 1897.

From there I was able to match up my research to Betty's research and we could prove that Frank J. Lyon was actually James B.'s third son, born in 1869 as Jas. B. Mills Jr. I learned that Martha married another merchant, one from Canada, and that they lived in Canada for a short time before opening a merchant block in Salt Lake City, Utah in the 1880s (known as the Lyon Block, today). Like the Millses, the Lyons operated several businesses. They had interests in a gold mine in Marysvale, as well as a store.

Betty also told me a wild story that is well-documented in the history of Marysvale, Utah. In 1897 Harry Mills shot and killed a fellow townsmen over a dispute, in a saloon. Oh, Harry, your grandfather would have warned you of the evils of saloons! After a long and tedious trial, covered by the sensational journalism of the day with judges quoting Shakespeare and Mrs. Harry Mills swooning in court, Harry was declared "not guilty." They hastened out of Utah and resettled in Wyoming to ranch and run a restaurant.

Wyoming? That's close to Montana...the Scout is on the trail, maybe. Eureka! There he is in the Wyoming 1920 Census record: J. B. Mills, living in the same county as his son. But not with his son. J. B. Mills is an inmate in the Fremont County Poor Farm. He is listed as born in Vermont, but his birth year is off by 5 years. This man who covered the west as a firefighter, teamster, merchant, farmer, cowboy, saddle-maker and gold-miner lists his occupational skills as "none."

In 1920 his sister Octavia was still alive. When she died in 1922, her family thought him living in Billings, MT. Was that his location the last they heard from him? When J. B. Mills died, no one knew much about him. His death certificate is reported by a "Mrs. Holt" who got the facts screwed up: he was born in 1830 (1837), in Elk River, MN (Vermont), widowed (maybe, if he took another wife or counts Martha's 1903 death as such). He died of "senility" so doubtful he had the facts straight, himself.

Mount Hope in WY courtesy of Find A Grave
James B. Mills is buried in Mount Hope Cemetery in Lander, Fremont, Wyoming next to his son, Harry Lee Mills. Buried next to the son who evidently didn't even know his biological father's own name--J. B. is buried as John B. Mills. We can hope that whatever drove James B. to wander the west and allow another man to raise his children, he came to make peace with in Wyoming.

And now I know where the black sheep of E. P.'s siblings is buried. The trail is complete...but not quite.

The reason that genealogist, Betty, contacted me in the first place was on behalf of her friend, Bobbie Bailey. Bobbie's grown children wanted to know more about their Lyon heritage. Bobbie's father, who died in California in 1956, when she was barely 20, knew little about her father. He had served in both WWI and WWII and was a mechanic on airplanes. His mother had married a doctor who died in 1916 at the age of 47.

Bobbie was born Roberta Lyon to Frank J. Lyon, the son of Jas. B. Mills, Jr. Except he had gone by Frank J. Lyon for most of his short life. He was the doctor who featured in the trial of Harry Lee Mills. He was the brother of Harry Lee Mills. He was the son of James B. Bobbie is the great-granddaughter of James B. Mills. By all rights, she should have been born Roberta Mills.

What a shocker! Can you imagine, your children ask you for more information on your paternal line and the genealogist comes back with the news that you're not even descended from the family that you thought you were. That your family surname was changed after an 1873 divorce. You are a Mills, not a Lyon.

Bobbie took the news in stride and the genealogist promised to pass my information on to Bobbie. I at least wanted to say, welcome to the Mills family! Bobbie did contact me and turns out that she's a wonderful story-teller and loves history as much as I do. She didn't know her dad well and is open to learning about the Millses.

My big surprise came last week when she sent me a note that she was headed my way! Turns out that one of her and her husband's favorite camping places is along the Clark Fork River just 11 miles past the Idaho border. That's only an hour away from my house! You bet I got in the car with my Mills man and binders full of research and the old E. P. Mills 1863 photo album with the picture of James B. in his fireman's uniform.

Meeting Bobbie yesterday was beyond delightful. To hug a woman who's great-grandfather was one of my biggest black sheep to hunt down was awesome. She was worried I was going to be sophisticated and I was worried she'd not like that I was not sophisticated. We hit it off! We're both married to rascals so we had plenty to laugh about. You'd think our husbands were the cousins. She and I also share an Alexander line, but I'll have to dig deeper to find our common ancestor.

Bobbie's first question after we hugged and sat down to share photos and stories was, "Do you think my father loved me?" I cannot help but think that it was the same question that haunted the sons of James B. Mills.

Dedicated to Bobbie Bailey who helped solve a black sheep mystery and returned the lost Mills line back into the fold.

Sunday, June 15, 2014

Moments

Waving goodbye to my eldest daughter Allison, son-in-law Drew, their friend Kate and the two huskies hunkered down in the back of their Toyota Rav, an osprey glides over Elmira Pond.

My wave turns to two-handed gestures pointing skyward toward the pond. We had waited for the osprey to show all weekend. Some moments come at the wrong time--the kids pull out onto the highway and are gone; I stand on the front porch without a camera; and the obnoxious red-winged blackbird routs the osprey.

The moment passes, taking with it all the other moments of an exceptional weekend: the conversations and laughter, the intermittent birding, the multiple games of Catan, the jokes about summer in the Pacific Northwest as we stoked the fire, the impromptu walk around the Elmira Schoolhouse, the spray of wildflowers across the pastures, the peach flirtinis, the continuing box of chocolates, the mist and rain, acclimating horses to dogs and dogs to horses, the trip to the Bonner Mall theater to see Tom Cruise in 3-D, the steak and twice baked potatoes followed by more Catan, the breakfast at Samuels and the last Catan game.

And I don't have a single photo.

Photo-less moments are among my favorite. We're such a crazed culture snapping selfies and moments as if we were living lives narrated by Howard Cossell. It's one thing to photo-document moments of country living on a northern Idaho peat bog to share across place and space, but when the moments of sharing time with others arrives, I want to live in the moment, not the documentation of it.

When I take photos, I'm not fully vested in experiencing the moment. I realized this when I tried to video-record my daughter Allison dancing live at a cabaret show in Missoula this past April. Never before had I tried to record my daughter whose dancing career has spanned 22 years. I always watched with full attention. When I tried to record, I felt like I wasn't really there, so I tucked my camera-phone back in my purse.

Some days are like that on Elmira Pond, too. Some days, I just leave the camera upstairs and sip my coffee and let life unfold without a script or record of the moment passing. I simply live it, sip by sip.

Tuesday, March 4, 2014

Thumps in the Night

Compacting Roof Snow
Hazy as a Jazz Bar
Slobbering Icicles
Eagle Observer
Snow Sculptures Buckling Around Chimney
Porch Piles
Roof Tectonics
Hurls of Snow
Grooved by Roof
With a perfect fire blazing blue flames over charred larch and orange coals, Grendel lies sprawled at my feet. Heat radiates from the black iron and I'm satisfied that I've finally figured out the secrets to lighting green wood and keeping it burning all day. My oak glider creaks as I rock, reading from the white-light of my Kindle, wondering what the Dragon Reborn will do with nine Aes Sedai in Camylen.

Then I hear a slight thump, shifting me from fantasy to reality. It's long been dark outside and I'm certain that northern Idaho has midnight monsters.

Sitting still to listen, the thump comes again--distant as if upstairs. Grendel lifts his head. Thump. He cocks his ears, and I toss aside the Kindle, sprinting upstairs in a panic. Bobo, who often has seizures, usually forewarns me, but maybe one caught her off guard. At the bedroom door I flip on the overhead light and the sleepy GSP blinks at me from her nest of pillows on my bed. Bobo is fine.

Thump.

Cautiously, I stand in the center of my office, a huge open room upstairs. Thump. It sounds like it's coming from Hobbit Hollow, the small guest nook nestled under the south eaves of the house. I stand at the room's door listening to a series of thumps, mustering courage against myths that go bump in the night. I open the door, flip on the light.

Bed unmade, beer bottle on the floor. Hobbit Hollow looks like it was invaded, but not by gremlins. My 24-year-old daughter was here a few weeks ago after she coached a gymnastics meet in Coeur D'Alene. Thump. Then I realize the sound is coming from my roof near the wood-stove pipe. Back downstairs, exchanging slippers for boots I step out onto my porch.

It's just snow compressing on the roof. Thump...thump...thump. The incremental sounds of compaction continue through the night.

Day dawns blue-smoke-hazy and warm. Well, comparatively warm; it's above freezing and icicles slobber like melting monster fangs. An eagle flies up the valley. I wonder if it looks like a smoky jazz bar beneath his gaze or if he notices the snow sculptures buckled into artwork around my metal chimney.

Pulling hard on the leash, Grendel wants to leap off the porch into the snow. But I can see the huge pile of drift that has come off the roof already, and I don't want to get knocked out by an avalanche of snow no matter how artistic it curls and piles atop the porch eaves. Away from the house I get a better perspective on the compaction that took place over night.

Those fluffy white flakes join forces to become steamrollers that pack moisture into dense layers. Breaking off like land masses, roof tectonics rift, shear and collide. My chimney bends from the pressure and I'm witness to new lands sliding ever so slowly toward the ground where snow drops then hurls 12 feet in a scattered pile. The roof grooves the snow the way glaciers carve stone.

No snow monsters visit Elmira; just the awesome power of winter weather thumping to let me know that nothing is ever truly still.

Wednesday, February 26, 2014

Birthday Larch

Drew's Birthday Larch
Enjoying His Gift
Chopping Larch
Helpful Wife
Freshly Chopped Larch
Chunks of ice growl as they slide down the metal roof of my house. The snow, freeze, melt cycle has sculpted monuments above my eaves and some are beginning to let go. Today, the sky is brilliant blue, the air cold and my wood wet.

Smoldering wood makes me long for spring more than any other reason at the moment. My hair is flecked with ashes from blowing at coals, as if my new workout includes deep inhalations with long blowing breaths. I pant before my open wood-stove trying to get orange coals to spark reluctant larch into flames.

Larch grows in the northern Rockies like a pine and sheds its needles like an aspen in autumn. The slopes seem full of dead trees in winter, but come spring larch brightens the forests with new green needles. Green needles are great; green wood, not so much.

Our grand pile of pine and birch did not last the winter. A few weeks ago, Todd bought us a pile of rounds. We like to split wood ourselves, and by "we," I mean Drew, my son-in-law. As the wood-dealer dumped rounds in our yard, Drew and Allison headed to Idaho.

Actually, we thought they were going winter-camping and were pleasantly surprised when they showed up at Elmira Pond. They were surprised too--we were in Couer D'Alene, 45 miles south. But Drew didn't miss the big pile of rounds in the yard, and over the phone we told him, "Happy birthday!"

The next morning, I rose to fix breakfast, hearing a steady whump outside. Drew was playing with his new gift, chopping the larch. In between meals, birthday cake and several rounds of Catan, Drew finished chopping all the rounds and his lovely wife helped to stack it all on our porch.

So while the wood has me attempting to breath fire, the memory of Drew's chopping his birthday gift leaves me warm.

Monday, January 27, 2014

Second Christmas

The Tree Un-Decorating Itself
The Smiles Second Christmas Brings
Gift Wrapping From India
Tales of Zeolites in the Road
Join in the Fun!
Hobbits like to eat so much that they have "second breakfast." Well, I suppose I love my fresh Christmas tree so much, I had to have Second Christmas. It still stands elegant and pine-smelling-fresh in the living room. Ornaments pool at the base; the un-decorating assisted by dogs wiggling at the door to go outside.

Allison's return from India with gifts was timely for a second Christmas. She left for Pune, India on January 1 with two suitcases. She returned on January 24 with four bags in tow. Her husband Drew, sister, Brianna and I all met her at the Sandpoint Amtrak Station (she flew into Minneapolis then finished her trip out west by train). We were happy as hounds to see her and hear of her adventures.

The next morning, over linguisa, fried potatoes and eggs we sat under the late January Christmas tree unwrapping gifts and listening to her stories like when she and a fellow traveler were walking on a dirt road through a village that she realized was full of zeolite crystals and vesicular basalt.

The villagers took notice of theses two American women gushing over the rocks in the road. Allison has an undergraduate degree in geology and was excited over the native minerals. Even though the villagers couldn't speak English, nor Allison speak Hindi, through charades and gestures, a woman took Allison and her companion on a hike to where huge boulders sported zeolite tubes and crystals.

The stories were gifts enough, but we also got to unwrap bits of India that Allison brought back to share. We sat by the Christmas tree and oohed and aahed over ear-rings and spices and scarves. The most incredible gift is on its way to Kansas to adorn the family's newest little princess. In about 2 years, out little Aly will be dazzling in the greatest princess outfit ever and her cousin Allison can't wait for that day.

It might be silly to have a second Christmas, but reuniting with loved ones is always cause to celebrate. Enjoy our photo gallery and be sure to join host blogger, Everything Susan, for more Silly on Sunday tales and photos.

The Perfect Princess "Longa"

Road Rocks

Happy to be Home with Hubby

Drew Studying His Gift-Rock

India Bling

Coffee Maker for Sis

Leather Shoes for Sis

Sister Hugs

The Perfect Gift Bag for Mum

Aahhh...Spices

The Smells of India

Second Christmas Calls for Peppermint Treats and Catan