Wyoming rhapsody.

Over fall break, the historian and I went to the beautiful part of Wyoming--up near Cody. At the BBR--that's the Bad Beaver Ranch--there are five acres with a stream, the Beartooth mountains right up the road, the Clark's Fork of the Yellowstone River running through it all, and Red Lodge, Montana just a half hour away. That's Red Lodge, with excellent restaurants and so forth. We drove through Yellowstone Park to get there on the way--as last year, the park all but empty except for the pile-up of bison we ran into (not literally--but they were definitely crossing the road without looking both ways.)

Our friends moved to WY from the coast of Oregon, where it was way rainy too much of the time. They're definitely at the opposite extreme now, though. Oregon's all soy milk and salmon and health food stores and sushi. Wyoming, on the other hand, greets you with a sign that says, "Wyoming is Beef Country! X County Cattlewomen!" It's cows and ranching and hunting and fishing, plus talking about all of that. Also, pretty darn conservative.

I used to always say (if you're a friend of mine, you may already have heard me say it) that, beside the coast, everything in the West is Idaho. But Wyoming is more Idaho than Idaho, if you catch my drift. Still, wow. Let me just say that the country is spectacularly beautiful. I always kind of liked the whole I-80 stretch, all of it, but I realize now that that upper western corner of Wyoming is just--you just can't imagine it till you've seen it. There must have been some amazing seismic action when whoever made those mountains made 'em.

We came home to find running son reading for his psychology class, covered with a blanket. He hasn't felt great for a week or so now, so his race time wasn't his best. However, and even so, he came in 8th, and both the boys and the girls of West Jordan High will be running in State next week. So now, we're going to try to get the skinny kid feeling better, so he can kick some ass at state. Maybe he needs a little Wyoming beef?

I don't have time for this nonsense.

Well, actually, I do--I have all the time in the world, apparently, for just about any kind of nonsense--but I'm just saying I don't because it sounds commanding. I've tried to get the historian to practice saying this, because I feel he could use this expression in all sorts of meetings where I feel confident nonsense is going on routinely. No dice, though. He's not the kind of guy to reduce things to a snappy catchphrase. More's the pity--no one would be expecting it from him.

Ah, well. A few updates for ya:

1. The poem-a-day-for-a-month project seems to be finished. I have three more poems in the works, which I will write and post, but as of now I have 23 poems, which I think is pretty darn good for 30-ish days. I'll be working on them for a long time to come, I bet--or maybe working off them is a better way to put it. Next time you see Dr. Write, congratulate her on her batch of poems, among which are some stellar sonnets and other assorted excellents.

2. The historian harvested our grapes and we have made juice of them.















The below is a photo of the historian in a tree, which is where our grapes actually grow, since we've never quite pruned them, actually. We always say we're gonna, and then we never do. Even worse, however, is the fact that we had many, many more grapes up in the tree, but we let them stay on the vine too long and the birds got 'em. I'd like to say that we're philosophical about the birds eating the grapes, but we're not. We curse the birds for eating our grapes. Damn birds! (This is not to mention the satanic yellow-jackets that decimate our precious little table grapes. I vow to hunt down their nest and figure out a way to make them go away without getting stung to death. Surely there's an internet site about that?)



















3. Last weekend at the Juan Diego Invitational cross country meet, running son came in fourth, ran a very fast first mile (4:38), and overall had his best time for a 5K ever. Region is next Monday, State the week after that. All of you keep running son in your hearts and hope that he will have two surpassingly great races.




















My sister and brother-in-law will be running the St. George Marathon this weekend as well. Cheers to them, and great luck in qualifying for the Boston.

4. The historian and I will be seizing fall break by the horns and taking a little trip to Wyoming, where we will visit our friends George and Maureen. G & M, Inc., have some property, The Bad Beaver Ranch, where there's a stream and some llamas and a couple of dogs and lots of cats. Probably also some cougars--I'm definitely hoping for cougars. We'll be driving through Idaho and into Yellowstone, then off to Cody and beyond. I'll have a full report for you when we get back.

'kay, this is funny.

See your doctor if you experience any of these symptoms















Married to the sea

Things to eat before you die.

Assertively Unhip tagged me a week ago in the challenge to name five things to eat before you die. I only just today found the post! Here's my list, which is just unimaginative enough to contain three things that I myself make. Well, anyway:

1. Sourdough pancakes made with your own sourdough starter. I had a sourdough starter that I started myself for a couple of years, and we had these pancakes every Saturday morning. They were so good, we used to invite people over to eat them with us. With jam.

2. Super thin garlic frites. I have not eaten these in France, but I think almost everyone's fries suck, except these that I ate in San Francisco at a restaurant called Les Joulin's. I would seriously, almost, go to SF just to eat these fries. Perfectly salty, with fresh minced garlic and finely minced parsley.

3. Chile verde burritos, smothered, with cheese and onions. I don't care if this is authentic or what. I also don't care if I'm a vegetarian when I order and demolish this dish. This dish is heaven on earth, and if you order two with rice and beans (as opposed to the order of three) at La Frontera in SLC, you have a hefty lunch the next day.

4. Your own homemade chai. Use black tea, cardamom seeds, star anise, cloves, and black peppercorns. You can also throw in a cinnamon stick if you just want more spiciness. Let it steep as long as you want, since you're going to use hot milk, too. A teensy bit of sugar, too. I like to make this by the couplea quarts and drink it in the morning all winter long.

5. Bread pudding made with your own bread, plus dried blueberries, plus superfine grated lemon rind. Let me know if you need a recipe.

Now, I tag francesca eliot, my bgf since forever (since we were fifteen, if you can believe it), and a world-class cook and eater, whose gorgeous photoblog appears to be down at the moment.

My first try at Comic Life.

Beautiful day.

In keeping with my theme song, I would just like to say that after a crazy cold snap which killed the tomatoes at my organic farmer's farm up north, the weather has turned around and it's the kind of autumn day that makes you want to go hiking or biking or walking or something besides inside computer work. Alas, aside from a trip to the dog park, which I intend to enjoy, it's inside computer work for me.

I accomplished a little editorial work in my closet this weekend. My new goal is to have a French wardrobe, i.e., fewer but more beautiful clothes that I will wear to death. Thought you'd like to know this. When I told the historian, he raised his eyebrows, but only slightly. To his everlasting credit.

I'm still behind in my work. I'm trying to think in two hour blocks of work, but as you can see, I'm blogging. Some things have to come before the two hour block starts.

Last week was the first episode of Law and Order: Criminal Intent. I have exhausted, or nearly exhausted, all the syndicated episodes, so I had to resort to watching the new season. It was very good, I must tell you. Eric Bogosian appears to be replacing both Jamie Sheridan and Courtney Vance, and doing a bang-up job of it. I know, no one cares but me, but it was excellent. Vincent D'Onofrio is meatier and greyer, but also more soulful and mournful than any other TV detective.

This week, aside from a horrible major's meeting on Friday, in which all the college English departments get together to talk about transfer issues, will be a good week, because it's autumn, because I will be caught up (don't laugh!), because my closet is for the moment organized, because for the moment, there are clean sheets, and because the season premiere of The Gilmore Girls is Tuesday (also a new episode of L&O: CI). These are my pleasures, and I'm sticking to 'em.

Special note for everyone who hasn't already heard this story: Jesus appeared in my dreams Sunday morning. He was running a poetry workshop, and I was in it. This made it into my poem of the day yesterday, in case you're interested.

Bad teacher or terrible teacher?

This is me we're talking about. Not five minutes ago, I finally got a learning module posted for my online class that they should have had . . . well, awhile ago. I have reasons and excuses, but still. Also, I am behind in reading the drafts in every single one of my classes. Plus, right about now, I feel my work should be done for the day. The thought of the kids, their eager faces, their queries, "Do you have our drafts yet?" None of this moves me. Instead, I say to myself, "I will arise early tomorrow to read the drafts." As if.

On the other hand, the learning module is first rate. Also, after a horrific day of sniffing and sneezing yesterday, I feel better today. Also, Bruiser went to the dog park in heroics of cold-suffering on the part of myself and the historian. Only two other dogsters were at the park, just to show you. It was raining! And we saw running son do another 5K today. And I did, after all, finish the learning module. And it's posted! Already!

Fine. Terrible teacher. I will redeem myself. By getting up early to read the drafts.

My theme song, which I may be a little embarrassed to admit.

Your Theme Song is Beautiful Day by U2

"Sky falls, you feel like It's a beautiful day Don't let it get away" You see the beauty in life, especially in ordinary everyday moments. And if you're feeling down, even that seems a little beautiful too.

What's Your Theme Song?

Otterbutt's is "Back in Black." Much hipper in a retro way. I actually feel my true theme song is more melancholy than this. I will get back to you on this.

To hector or not to hector.

Surely I am not alone in noting the general sluggishness of the blogworld. I sometimes feel like scolding, except when I note that my own pace is, well, sluggish. Part of it is the poem-a-day project, which I think is consuming my writing chakra's energy (there's a writing chakra, right?). Also, my teaching turns out to be rather all-consuming as well, as I'm developing new materials pretty much constantly for two online scenarios. Add to that a relapse into a headcold--very annoying--and the visit from Victor Villanueva to SLCC last week, and it has in general been a very slow time for blogging.

But that's all right, that's okay, I'll get back to blogging someday. In the meantime, here's what else is on my mind:



Also tomatoes to roast, flowers to plant, dogs and winter to consider, a jazz concert tonight (Ramsay Lewis, very spry at 71, along with his drummer and bassist), and autumn to enjoy.

Running son deconstructs a salad.

In this, his eighteenth year, my son has decided to pay attention to what he eats. His coaches are coaching his meals now. No fries. No soda. Protein two nights before a race, carbs the night before. This has resulted in phone calls like this:

Son: Mom, is a potato a carb?

Mom: Yes.

Son: Okay, that's what I'm going to eat. [click]

Tonight, a protein night, we ran up to Wendy's (where else?) for a number 6 (spicy chicken sandwich) combo, but with a potato in the french fry slot and a lemonade in the soda slot. Lettuce only on the sandwich. No chives (I swear he said "hives," but he was adamant that he didn't), no sour cream, cheese but not cheese sauce on the potato. But alas! they had no baked potatoes left.

"What's the side salad like?" he asked me, the all-knowing of salads, I guess.

"I don't know, it's good, I guess, just plain," said I, fount of salad wisdom.

So that's what he ordered. When we got it home, he was pleased to see that all the extras--shredded carrots, cherry tomatoes, cucumber slices--were "all laid out," the better to remove them. "Who wants the tomatoes and cucumbers?" he hollered. Both the historian and I demurred, he from another room; then, almost simultaneously, we both said, "but don't throw them away." Waste not, want not, particularly when it comes to your salad vegetables.

"Who knew this salad was so huge," he said, choking it down. It goes down a little easier if you lube it up with some ranch.

"That salad is tiny," I said.

"But it's deep," he said. With only a little of the lettuce debris left in the shallow, shallow black plastic dish, he said, "My coaches are going to be so proud of me for eating a salad. I'm gonna tell Coach White in second period."

Big guy on his way to the community college.

Sweaty.

[Narcissistic whining alert]

Coming back from a holiday makes work much workier, if you catch my drift. Teachers in my corridor, in an unscientific poll, agreed that the students were not into it after the Labor Day holiday. Plus everything just seems grouchier. Fetching an LCD projector? What a pain in the ass. Walking over to the relocatable classroom? Nightmare! Sweating through a presentation that students seem only marginally excited about? The horror.

I've finished teaching for the week, so that's good. Yesterday I taught at home all day, including building a new presentation for my online composition course, and that was good. Even working all day, however, still left me behind. Sweaty, and also pissy.

A redeeming feature of the week has been that I am still caught up on the Poem a Day for a Month project. I'm loving writing new poems. It's like a contraption that's getting in gear. I took a walk yesterday and came up with four new ideas for poems, and wrote two them. Then, at the City Art Meltdown, I read one of them, along with another poem from the project, as well as an older poem. Dr. Write also read one of her witty and also heartbreaking pieces, beautifully, and the evening was a smashing success. Props to my writing group, a braintrust of poets if ever there was one.

I cannot collect my thoughts.

In a completely rude gesture, the POTUS and his entourage
came to SLC on or about my birthday, necessitating a visit
to the protest. Mainly, I was protesting the fact that GWB
had wrecked my birthday.















Running son ran the pre-region race, his first of the
season. Despite a strained calf muscle, he came in
third at 17:10, which is seventeen seconds faster
than his best time on that course last year. This picture
is only a generic one, as running son was already way
up the hill at this point (or so). He argues that he
could run the course in 16:45 without the calf strain, and
time will tell.















Labor Day = the last time we can stay in the cabin
before my dad closes it down for the winter. Henry's
Fork of the Snake gleaming down below the path here.















Duke the Dachshund refuses to give me a good look.
Damn him!















The roof of the meadhall. Or, the ceiling of the log
cabin, which I find exceedingly beautiful.

As you have now all heard, Dr. Write and I are engaged
in a battle to the death. No, wait: we're exchanging poems!
I keep getting those two things mixed up! She's writing at
genius level, may I report. This is the poet equivalent of
National Novel Writing Month. Wish us luck.

Running son goes back to school. Also, college daughter.

It's been a quiet day around here. Running son, who would ordinarily wake up around now or so (early to mid afternoon), perhaps having run in the morning and perhaps not, got up to go to school today.

School gets more and more prescriptive, I note. A few years ago, they started sending out "Mandatory Attendance" notices as part of the registration packet. The gist of this is to let you know, as the slacker parent you no doubt are, that your kids are required, by God, to go to school, and that by signing the notice, you acknowledge that if you let your kid stay home because he's exhausted or only sort of sick, or whatever, that you are thereby evidenced to be a slacker parent who doesn't understand that kids are REQUIRED to be in school! This year, they've started a new punitive attendance policy, whereby kids who miss school have to pay for the privilege of making up the classes they missed. I should protest this ridiculous practice, but I am mainly hoping to outlast it, as running son is a senior.

He went early to talk to a counselor this morning. New rules: you can't just show up early to talk to your counselor! No! you must take your chances with the first-come, first-served after school policy for talking to the counselor. Now, I'm the last person to criticize public school employees, seriously, but come on, what are the counselors doing before school? Organizing files? investigating criminals? curing cancer?

Running son has issues with credit to work out. He spent some time in the public schools of Georgia, the upshot of which is that the Utah schools feel he should make up a semester of 9th grade English. We all swear we had this worked out once, but a counselor who was apparently having a really, really bad day (serious obstacles in the curing cancer before school endeavor, probably) said that our previous solution would not work. This means that we have to go over the heads of the counselors. Luckily, running son's dad knows all the principals in the whole state of Utah, basically, so he'll broker the deal.

Whatever. It will all work out, but I'm struck over and over how many ways school gets in the way. Even a kid who feels the summer has flown by and he's done nothing but run, sleep, and work at the movie theater gets a little excited at the beginning of school. He'll manage to jump through these hoops, and probably pretty gracefully. There are probably plenty of kids who won't. [note the previous citation of a civic dimension to a personal issue--does this improve my ethos?]

College daughter's first day of classes up in Logan was today. She's been working up there for a week and a half, clearly glad to be on her own again after a summer at home. The thing is, we all miss her around here. Cheers to the sophomore year.

Requiem for a meadow.

West Jordan City Municipal Code, Chapter 42, "Environment," Section 3, "Nuisances," Part 2, "Weeds, Refuse, and Other Deleterious Objects":

"Injurious weeds and noxious weeds mean those plants growing in an uncultivated state, not used for food, fiber or ornamentation, extending in height greater than 12 inches above ground. The term "injurious or noxious weeds" shall also include those plants listed as noxious weeds by the state commissioner of agriculture pursuant to Utah Code Ann. § 4-17-3, together with such plants later added to such list.

"Nuisance means any injurious or noxious weeds, garbage, refuse, or unsightly or deleterious objects."

Was it a bad day, or a terrible day?

Actually, it started out as a pretty good day. All night, I woke up pretty much every hour, on the hour, but when I did, I kept hearing "Sisters of Mercy" by Leonard Cohen in my head. Which improved things, funnily enough. When I woke up for good, I felt only slightly shredded. I worked on my courses for awhile, went to a meeting where we both got things done and laughed. I came home and there were two dogs who were so damn happy to see me and who also wanted to share my leftover Thai food for lunch. My dad dropped by to bring me a cd with family reunion photos and the latest draft of a poem he's writing about one of our ancestors. Then, it seemed like a good time for a nap.

I was awakened by a knock at the door. On my porch stood a young man in a blue uniform. Postal worker with a package? or police officer? Dear reader, it was a police officer, come to deliver this news: the meadow (aka our front lawn) is illegal. "That wouldn't be considered xeriscaping," he said, not unkindly, when I ventured a tentative not-even-a-real-argument that we might be, sort of, xeriscaping. He gave me the phone number of the city office that could tell me what counts as xeriscaping in West Jordan, and we have fourteen days to get things taken care of. If we do, the case will be closed.

We're a case. An open case of illegal lawn activity.

Plus, my computer screen just informed me that I had made a "bad request." Bad request! Also, I'm trying not to contemplate which of our neighbors ratted us out to the cops.

Happy surprise.

While slogging away at my online class, which should have been finished and up for review two weeks ago, I stumbled upon a hilarious site: microfiction.org. As it will tell you on its homepage, "microfiction.org is a small, inappropriately-named collection of random generators of stuff."

I will not tell you everything, and thus deprive you of the enjoyment of surprise. I will, however, tell you that on the "What Would Jesus Do?" generator, one answer the generator came up with was this: "Jesus would transform 500 llamas into a set of encyclopedias with nothing but a nail!"

You may not need amusements like this, but I do, especially in the middle of slogging away at my online class, which should have been finished and up for review two weeks ago.

At night.

August 11, 2006















August 12, 2006

My own private Idaho.

Okay, I'm pretty sure I've used that title before, but I'm too lazy to check, so it'll have to do. We're on our way in the morning up to the family cabin in Island Park. This time, it's me, the historian, college daughter and running son; over Labor Day, we'll add in a daughter and a son and their respective spouses, but subtract college daughter, who will be--that's right!--at college.

Even though I'm taking my laptop and will have some work to do, the thought of doing it up there, of taking walks and maybe seeing a western tanager or an eagle or a moose, of making a fire, maybe, of sleeping easily the way I do up there--all this seems heavenly.

So, there's late water soaking into the ground so nothing dies while we're gone; plum jam finishing cooking before I put it into jars; teenagers downstairs arguing pleasantly; the historian in his study, doing something at his desk; and my head buzzing about what to take, what last tasks to do, and what to forget till we get home.

And when I get home--or at least the night before we come home--I will feel like this:

Family reunion.

Yesterday, to celebrate the centennial of my grandfather's birth, we had a family reunion up Provo Canyon. Fifty-five children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren gathered at South Fork Park, which was beautiful yesterday, to eat and klatsch and eat some more. Then we all drove up to Heber to ride the Heber Creeper. This is an extremely slow, extremely old train that takes you on a journey of maybe forty miles round trip in three hours. The nice thing is that you can move around on the train and visit, there's an open air car, so you can track the beautiful Heber Valley as you're crawling through it, and if the day is not too hot, it's actually very refreshing.

Readers of the megastore will be fascinated to hear this bit of info: people in my family are all getting older. All the children have grown. It was nice, even so and despite this reminder of the ineluctable progress of mortality, to see everyone, to see the new babies and the growing kids. To wit:















Boyz of all ages prefer to play GameBoy, their form of klatsching.















These two people were born mere days apart!
(beautiful daughter on right; excellent nephew on left)















Dad, as eldest son, delivers obligatory pre-luncheon remarks.















Mom takes a slow train (to Provo)















The Historian rides the historic train.















More gameboy action on the train, with running son.















International singing star son and his lovely wife.















College daughter making the rounds on the train.















A passel of cousins in a tree.















More cousins in the river.















Meet my cousin, a new spook for the Company. I'll say no more.















The Jordanelle reservoir.

There's so much more--nieces, aunts and uncles, more scenery. It was a good day.