Not All Who Wander Are Lost

Our weekend motto

This blog is Part II of our weekend attempt to Climb Silver Mountain.  For Part I, please click yesterday’s post. To summarize:  we did not Climb Every Mountain yesterday.  We searched high and low and followed every rainbow but did not reach Silver Mountain. Instead we were sidetracked into a delicious dinner at the Hardwood Steakhouse. 

 This morning our conversation went like this:

 Barry:  Let’s go back and climb Silver Mountain.

 Kathy:  No, I don’t want to drive all the way back there.

 Barry:  OK, let’s not go.

 Kathy:  Wait a minute, maybe we should go.

 Barry (a few hours later):  No, it looks like it’s going to rain.  Let’s not go.

 Kathy:  OK.

 Barry:  It looks like it’s not going to rain now.  Let’s go.

 Kathy:  Arhggghghghghghghghghgh!!!!! 

Prickett Dam

This time we drove directly there.  We did not drive through convoluted backwoods roads.  We were civilized.  We took the paved highway and followed the nicely marked signs.  There was no question of getting lost.  We knew where we were 99.9% of the afternoon. 

Kids, I’m showing you the picture of Prickett Dam.  Can you believe how low the lake is?  Remember when we camped there?  When all four of us crowded in that tiny rowboat along with our tents and sleeping bags and food and fishing poles and camped there for a weekend?  Didn’t we have fun?  Wasn’t it a lifetime ago?

 Excuse me, all the rest of you.  Needed to break for a Nostalgia Moment.  Prickett Dam was built ‘way back in the 1930’s…the construction of the power dam resulted in the death of hundreds upon hundreds of trees as the river was damned.  One can still see the stumps sticking out of the lake even when the water level is high; this year the stumps themselves rise out of the lake like giant wooden beasts with octopus-like wooden legs stretching out in every direction. They are repairing the dam; the water level will magically rise again to cover up the stump-creatures come spring.

Silver Mountain mine entrance

 

The famous Silver Mountain steps

After our view of the low water levels of Prickett Dam Lake, we proceeded easily to Silver Mountain. What were we fussing about yesterday?  So easy to drive there.  How could anyone get lost?  Several other vehicles parked along the base.  Darn, we didnt have the mountain to ourselves.  (We are so spoiled way up north.  It can be so isolated that you hardly cross the path of other folks in the backcountry.  How many other places in the country can you sometimes have a whole mountain–albeit a Michigan mountain–to yourself?)  

Our first peering:  at the closed-off mine shaft built into the side of the mountain.  Back in 1847 miners built a shaft 150 feet into the mountain looking for silver.  A sign says the miners were probably drawn to the area by rumors that the Chippewa had discovered silver particles along the riverbanks.  The Chippewa, however, believed that Silver Mountain was haunted, or at least bad luck.  This may have been well-founded (according to the sign) because the mine was abandoned by the fall of 1847 and no precious metals were ever found there. 

 

The Exquisite View

Up the steps we climbed.  Heart pumping faster with each set of steps.  Keep your eyes on the steps, keep your feet square on them.  Hold on to the rail.  In between the steps your feet pound upon the earth.  It almost sounds hollow, like a drum.  The mountain isn’t really a solid mountain…it’s a mine.  And keep your eye open for ghosts!

A giant stone cracked in two

 After surveying the vista from the top of the mountain we descended the stairs.  An odd synchronicity met us at the bottom.  First I need to back up to yesterday.  When we were approaching the restaurant last night I said to Barry, “Wouldn’t it be fun to meet Karen and her husband at the restaurant?  I know they live out here.”

 Of course we didn’t see them at the restaurant.  I haven’t even glimpsed Karen since last June or July, when we abandoned our Artist Way gatherings.

 As we descended the last of the steps down Silver Mountain today, guess who drove up in their truck and came walking toward us?  Karen and her husband! 

 I love when this happens! 

We wanted to climb Silver Mountain but we ate fish instead.

River pool

For the third time in thirty years we attempted to visit Silver Mountain and hike up the steps to the summit.  Everyone in the whole county has already been there, I am sure.  My husband has successfully visited there several times.  Yet every time I try to climb Silver Mountain, Something prevents it.

Today, I was determined, we would find the elusive mountain, climb it, take photos, return home and publish a blog about the wonders of the rocky-mountain top.

Right.

The river is POWERFUL! Remember that.

Trip #1 (all those years ago):  we just plain got lost in the backwoods wilderness of the Ottawa National Forest.

Trip #2:  We knew where we were going, but torrential spring rains washed out the road to the mountain.

Trip #3 (today):  We started out about 3:15 p.m.  I said to Barry, “Do we need a map?”  “No,” he replied breezily, “I know just where we’re going.” And proceeded to tell me exactly how to get there.

So we drove.  And drove.  And drove.  And pretty soon the clock showed 4 p.m. and 4:30 p.m. and we still could not find the right road.  Alas.  We turned down a side road and ended up turning around.  We were starting to get hungry.  And the sun now sat at a very low angle on the horizon, diving down lower.

“We should have started earlier,” we said glumly.  But then I had a brilliant idea!  It may not be the outdoor adventure that we planned, but…”How about we drive over to Covington and eat dinner at the Hardwood Steakhouse?”

I have been wanting to eat dinner at this out-of-the-way restaurant since it opened a couple years ago.  And we are NEVER anywhere near the restaurant at dinner time.  It’s about forty five mintues from our house. Perhaps this is the Universe’s treat.  If we had found Silver Mountain earlier, we never would have traveled this far south. 

“What do you think?  Can we go?  Oh let’s go!” I enthusiastically gushed.

We should have brought our map.

Finally we discovered exactly where we were in these winding back roads, and we could have easily found our way to the little mountain.  But by then it was 5 p.m. and would be dark in an hour.  We decided to follow the road to the Sturgeon River Campgrounds (where we had camped years ago with our family).  This brought back memories of the time a rainstorm washed out our tent and how we rose soaking wet at 6 a.m. Sunday to drive home.  I remember we ate donuts in the car and somebody…no names please…threw up the donuts all over.  What a fun family trip that proved to be!

Sun-lit trees along the river

I climbed down to the river to take photos and discovered the following rock.  Someone had written appropriate sentiments onto the big stone overlooking the rapidly rushing river. 

The rock says it all

So we didn’t make it to Silver Mountain today.  (Or the last time, or the time before that.)  Remember the saying, “You know how to make God laugh?  Tell him your plans!!”  We announced our intentions, but the Universe had another plan.  It said, “No, today you will drive down lovely country back roads.  You will wander by the Sturgeon River.  And, best of all, you will eat a lovely sesame-encrusted salmon with orange-ginger sauce at the Hardwood Steakhouse in Covington.”

Delicious dinner

Here is the secret to life:  Sometimes you have to make plans.  But always be prepared to listen to any alternate plans the Universe has in mind.  Be infinitely flexible. Be ready to turn left instead of right.  Laugh a lot.  If you can’t find Silver Mountain before sunset, look for a good restaurant. 

It’s as simple as that. 

Honey, can I come on your bee interview?

Honeybee on jar of honey!

This morning, just as I prepared to dash out the door at 6:40 a.m.  for work, I called out to Barry,  “What time will you be home?”

From behind the shower curtain he mumbled, “I have that bee interview at 2 o’clock.”

My outdoor adventure ears perked up. 

Bee interview?  Sounds like an outdoor adventure blog readers might want to hear.

“Can I come, too, Honey?” I called.

Dan Grandy holds bee smoker for "real" interviewer while I sneak a photo sideways

That is how I came to tag along on the Bee Interview.  My honey works for the local newspaper and does “real” stories.  While he was taking the “official” photographs with his Canon EOS I was sneaking sideways pictures on my little Sony Cybershot.  While he was interviewing and taking notes, I was staring absent-mindedly at the Huron Bay, the wandering bees and the actual honey and only half paying attention.

So later I had to interview my honey to get the actual interview.  Here are the FACTS for you avid bee-lovers:

Dan and Lee Grandy have been raising bees for about six years now.  He had a rough start.  Killed his first two hives in two months.  But he’s got about 70 hives now in several bee “yards”. 

You take the honey out every year in September.  This leaves the poor bees with no food, so you then have to feed them a sugar/water solution from which they create a lower-quality honey.  This honey feeds the bees throughout the long winter. 

Dan collects 40-50 pounds of honey from each good hive.  Some of it remains raw, while other parts are processed and sold in local stores.  Did you know that honey contains an enzyme dangerous to babies under one year of age?  But that very same enzyme helps heal cuts, working a bit like hydrogen peroxide to help heal wounds.  Dan swears by it.

During the long cold winter, the buzzing creatures slowly churn around in a mass.  It can be 20 degrees outside and 70-80 basking degrees within the hives.  Bees take turns rotating around the Queen, take turns at the colder outer rim. 

Now comes the bee bathroom facts.  Bees don’t like to go the bathroom inside the hive.  In fact they really don’t like it, as it can create a parasite which kills the hive.  During the frigid winters they “hold it” for a long time.  On 35-40 degree days they take bathroom flights.  (I swear, I am not making this up.  You can ask the editor.  Or ask Dan himself.) He has lost hives to this parasite in the past.

The hives

About 30,000 to 50,000 bees buzz around a good hive.  When you first purchase your bees you buy 10,000 bees in two to three pound packs.  Plus the Queen.  Dan is trying to raise his own queens in hopes to avoid the $15-20 purchase price per majesty.

Worker bees live 21-26 days and work themselves to death.  That’s how it is for them.  Here is the job-cycle for bees:

1)  newly hatched bees take care of eggs

2)  They get a new job promotion meeting the worker bees at the door and taking the pollen inside

3)  They get another job promotion and now become pollen-gatherers falling in love with flowers outside the hive.

4)  Then they die.

Honeycomb

I asked Dan if he ever gets stung.  He raised his eyebrow, “Only 14-15 times a day.  But after six stings I quit having a reaction and don’t even get any swelling any more.”

Hmmm….

Local honey

Dan’s note to self:  “Wear the bee suit.  If you don’t it hurts a LOT.”

Kathy’s note to self:  Buy some of Grandy’s raw honey next time I’m in town.   A peanut butter and honey sandwich sounds good right now.

Things are looking up

The heavens open up

Have you looked, really looked, at the sky above you lately?

How marvelously the clouds dance against the sky, changing colors, opening up, obscuring the heavens, then teasing you with flashes of sunlight?

I have not stopped to truly fall in love with the sky until today.  On Day #320 of the outdoor adventure.  Three hundred twenty days of opening the door, walking outside, and I have not fallen head-over-heels in love with the sky until now. 

Of course, I’ve noticed the sky.  Everyone notices the sky. But it’s so often the earth that demands our attention.  The little things, the unusual prizes, the flowers, the leaves, the dogs, the snow.  The Beings of the Earth.

Today the Beings of the Sky tapped my shoulder and said, “Hey!  Look up!”  and I did.

Up, up and away...

What an amazing world exists above our heads.  Cloud-creatures sway and form and dissolve everywhere.  You can lay on your back against the earth and watch the ever-changing cloud-creatures.  I remember doing this for the first time at age eight.  I saw our recently dead wire-haired terrier named Buttons in the clouds.  Even though he had choked on a fish bone and died, he was somehow floating in the clouds.  You couldn’t convince me otherwise.

Sky in heavens and on earth (OK, reflected in a pond)

Earlier this year I discovered the sky in ponds and mud puddles.  That was a revelation.  It had never truly occurred to me before that mud puddles could reflect the sky so beautifully.  (And I am not the only one!  One of my good friends, an earth-lover extraordinaire recently confessed that she had not noticed that before either.)  However, do you think I raised my eyes to the sky above and stood enraptured at the clouds and blue?  No.  I was only enraptured with the reflection.

Today I was enraptured with the Real Thing.  The sky itself.

Light, clouds, depth, sky

This morning I left for Houghton about 8:30 a.m.  Spent a good hour or longer in the coffee shop writing on the laptop, aka Miss Ellie.  Then headed off to recycle and shop.  Felt a strong prompting to phone my nephew Doug who is attending Michigan Technological University.  Would he like to join his aunt for lunch?  I really didn’t expect to get a reply, imagining how busy a college student might be. 

Yet, miracle of miracles, he had seventy-five free minutes.  Could I pick him up down by the library?  Yes.  We ate Chinese at the Ming Buffet, catching up on everything.

Afterward we agreed to meet again, hopefully before the holidays.  I then phoned my son in California (yes, the same son I’m going to visit in one week) who has the flu.  Yes, probably the dreaded swine variety.  Half of our county has the flu.  For the first time in our memory they’ve closed all of the county schools until Monday. 

Driving home, I suddenly felt achy.  Oh no, was I about to join the swine numbers?

I forced myself to stop the car behind the Pow Wow grounds and wander in the 37 degree temperatures, breathing deep the fresh air.

That’s when I noticed the Sky.

Unexpected beauty

Who knows if it was the Sky?  But suddenly all my aches and pains disappeared.  I felt energized and exuberant and totally in love with clouds and sunlight and blue sky.

Things are looking up.

Perhaps other flu victims should spend some time with their heads in the clouds.  Just a half hour a day should do.  The best medicine on earth!  Or, rather, in the sky… What if doctors prescribed, “Take two half hour doses of the Sky for two weeks” instead of antibiotics.  Wouldn’t that be novel?

The Freezing Moon

Ice

The Anishinabe (Ojibway) call this November moon “The Freezing Moon”.  We all know why.  As the angle of the earth tilts away from the sun, our northern hemisphere begins to cool.  Winter whispers in the ear of autumn, “You’re outa here!”  Autumn waves the last of her vibrant leaves, recognizing that it’s here time to go.

Vibrant oak leaves...last to go...

I’ve had a challenging day or so.  I feel overwhelmed; spread too thin.  The precious silence and simplicity that I love has been eaten away by too-much-busyness.  It’s not just the new novel-writing commitment for the month of November.  It’s simply that I am not making enough room for quiet space if my life.  My soul is begging for me to listen and I simply brush it away, “Oh, do be quiet now, I’m busy!”   It feels as if an inner voice keeps whispering, “It’s time to let go of a few things in your life right now.  Let go of a few of those autumn leaves that are ready to release into the wind.”

The Freezing "Moon"

People often move to the woods or country desiring a less hectic lifestyle.  They want simplicity, quiet, ease of life.  That can happen if one cultivates it.  But more often than not, Life and Busy-ness have a way of finding you even in the backwoods.  Busy-ness can take over your life, wherever you go. 

When Busy-ness starts getting overwhelming, we need to have a talk with her. 

“This is what must go,” we might say to Ms. Busy-ness.  “This and this and this.  You might like all these things, but are they really necessary?”

And we know what is simply wasting precious minutes and hours in our day.  We know.  But it’s often challenging to let that autumn leaf fall off the branch.  To simply let go of that which is not serving us, in order to give more quality time to that which nourishes our souls.

Autumn slipping away...

Snow fell on the morning of the full moon.  Less than an inch draped our car, scattering on the fallen leaves.  In town, at the top of the hill, as I drove to get my hair trimmed, I noticed at least two or three inches of white.  Amazing how one area has no snow; three miles away you almost need boots. 

Every person is different.  Some of us need huge vistas of silence, of space, of walking in the woods with the companionship of the sun and moon.  Another person is satisfied with much less.  The snow falls in different proportions everywhere; we must listen to our inner guidance and follow the quiet direction which prompts us.

A frozen Buick

Too often if we refuse to heed our wise inner voice, our body speaks up instead and suggests a nice vacation with the flu or perhaps some other illness. 

I’m going to try, starting today, to make room in the midst of busy-ness.  Perhaps the busy-ness will sit back and relax.  Perhaps she and I will share a cup of jasmine tea and some silence.

Perhaps the leaves will effortlessly release from the trees and drift in the autumn wind, beneath The Freezing Moon.

Perhaps.

Miracle

Outdoors today:  helped Barry move and cover the wood splitter.  Then we carried long heavy boards for his garage edition.  Later we covered the woodpile.  More checks off our “to do list” before winter arrives.

Lessons of novel writing; lessons of outdoor commitment

All good fairy-tales start with “Once upon a time.”  Do you remember sitting on your mama’s lap, perhaps with a thumb in your mouth?  Her voice gently soothed you as she read stories of long ago and far away.  Her voice sounded like a lullaby as she brought you to lands from the past.  You no longer lived in the present on your mama’s lap; you were gone into a story.  So far gone that you later blinked and wondered where the time disappeared and how that story was so real, as real as your living room and your mama’s voice.

The old high school made into an apartment building; the Ford water tower

Stories have the ability to send us into other worlds.  Where would we be without stories, without books, without tales of overcoming and learning and crying and loving? 

I am thinking a LOT about stories since starting NaNoWriMo three days ago.  About the value of stories, and the challenges of stories.

As some of you may have guessed, my fictional story is set in our nearby ghost town of Pequaming back in 1932.  Henry Ford bought this village and aimed to make it into a model town, a sociological experiment.  He insisted that the villagers get rid of their chickens and cows claiming the animals were unsanitary and that on $5.00 a day wages each family could afford to buy milk and eggs.  He required each family to cultivate a garden.  He banned drinking, insisted workers save a percentage of their wages and did “general surveillance” of their homes.  He maintained stringent village rules, and pioneered an educational system in his private school system accredited by the University of Michigan.

The "Bungalow"

Henry Ford was especially fond of Pequaming and annually spent a few days in his Bungalow, a seven-pillared, fourteen room home.  When he arrived, the whole town turned out to greet him with a band concert and old-fashioned dances.  Both the Mr. and Mrs. enjoyed dancing.

The Ford's view of Lake Superior through the southern-style columns

You may be wondering:  what the heck am I writing about?  OK, here’s the scoop.  This is actually a story which has been rambling around in my head since I was in my late 20’s.  It’s the story of a young school teacher who comes up on a train from Chicago and teaches in one of the four elementary school buildings in Pequaming.  She has two suitors, a Ojibway fellow named David and a Finnish socialist (yep, there were a lot of Finnish socialists living here at that time) named Christian.

Barry, by the way, raised his eyebrows at the name of the suitors.  What kind of name is “David” for the Ojibway suitor?  Or “Christian” for that matter?  I refused to budge.  That was their names.  End of story. 

And, strangely enough, I later opened the history book of Pequaming and discovered that a chief named David King had sold Pequaming to a white logger named Hebard in 1879.  Perhaps my make-believe David could be a descendant, do you think?  And when wandering in the Pequaming cemetery on Sunday I noted one of the old-time graves belonging to a fellow named Christian. 

Perhaps the ghosts are whispering the story to me…

The beautiful gardens were here

Here is where Henry kept his Model T's and Model A's

Here is what I have learned about writing in three days:

1.  Don’t believe your thoughts about the quality of your writing or whether you have a story to tell.  Just keep writing. You can edit later.

2.  Don’t believe your feelings of frustration about what you are writing. Feelings are like the weather.  Changeable.  One minute it’s raining and the next sunny on your inner landscape.  Just keep writing.

3.  It doesn’t take much time to sit down and write 1,600 words a day.

4.  Just face the empty page and let the words come out.  Just keep writing.

Leaves of rust

Every lesson I have learned while writing this novel has mirrored the lessons of this outdoor commitment.  Do not believe your thoughts and feelings about why you don’t want to go outside.  Why you prefer to stay inside.  Why it’s too cold, too hot, too rainy, too snowy.  JUST GO OUTSIDE.  You won’t regret it.

** Outdoor time today~~raking.  And then more raking as Barry drove the little lawn tractor around chopping up leaves.  Another autumn chore checked off!

Henry Ford’s ghost town of Pequaming

Long ago and far away

Once upon a time there lived a man named Henry Ford.  Henry loved to tinker and design.  He loved to imagine.  He dreamed of something called an “automobile”, a horse buggy with tires and a motor and a steering wheel.

That was long ago and far away, and dreams sometimes do come true.

Henry designed his automobile and sold thousands and eventually millions and perhaps billions by the time his fairy tale will end.  But when he was still alive, back there in the 1920’s, Henry visited the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.  Our fair earth, rich with trees and minerals and two Great Lakes. 

His planning mind plotted.  He surveyed the endless miles of trees and thought (I’m sure this is what he thought):  “You know, I could use some of these hardwood trees in my automobiles.  They would make great body supports.  I will start some logging camps and supply wood for my downstate plants.”

Pequaming's old community hall

Then Henry really had a brilliant idea.  He visited a mill town jutting out into the Keweenaw Bay and thought, “I am going to buy this town.  I am going to make it into a model town.  It will be a social experiment.  We’ll see how it goes.”

So Henry bought Pequaming  in September, 1923.  Went and bought the whole darn town.  The village featured about one hundred houses, a general store and a hotel.  Only a school and two or three churches were not added in the deal, which included 70,000 acres of prime timber.

A child's modern-day robot toy on rotting stoop of old community building

And, for incentive, he decided to pay his workers more than any other loggers at the time. When other workers were receiving $1.50 per day, Henry paid his loggers $3.50 for an eight-hour shift.  He gained a reputation for “practicing forestry”–harvesting mature trees, leaving young, fast growing trees for an oncoming crop and ridding the young forest of fire hazards by removing brush.  He pioneered forest record keeping. 

That wasn’t all he did.  He then proceeded to raise the wages of his 300 workers from $3.50  a day to $5, insisting his crew punch a time clock.  After three months, if they proved themselves, they received a $1 pay raise.

Peeking through the broken window

After setting the mill in order, Henry proceeded to test his private theories on self reliance and education.  He aimed to turn Pequaming into a “model town”. 

House rentals were increased from $1 to $12-15 per month, but in return all dwellings were painted and repaired.  Ford Motor Company repaired the old mill, provided a new water tower and fire hydrants, as well as a Model A fire engine. In time, electricity, running water and indoor toilets were installed in all the homes. 

Who carved her name those many years ago?

This all happened Once Upon a Time.  By the late 1940’s or early 1950’s, after the Great Depression and World War II passed, Pequaming was a ghost town.  The bustling village had almost completely emptied out.  The windows were barred and shuttered, doors flapped in the breeze.  More than 1,000 people once lived, worked, breathed, played and danced in this town.  Now the ghosts lived here among the empty buildings and in the cemetery, ghosts who fondly remembered Henry Ford and his legacy.

Tomorrow I will tell you more about his Model town, his social experiment.  Can anyone guess why I am telling you this once-upon-a- time story right now?

This tree Remembers.

The Day of the Dead

In the cemetery

Today we celebrate the Day of the Dead.  When our children were little often I made a pizza on this post-Halloween day.  Even though we aren’t Mexican, I thought it an auspicious occasion to remember our ancestors.  We would take a slice of pizza and put it out under the oak tree for all the grandpas and grandmas and my godmother Kathleen.  Here, you ancestors, we won’t forget you!  You are still part of our family, even though you’re long gone into the coffin’d earth.  Join us in spirit.  Let’s share a slice of pizza.

We told stories.  This was your grandpa and this is how he loved you.  This was Grandpa and he held you in his arms and read you this story when you were barely four years old.  This was Grandma and she made the best baked beans drenched with molasses and brown sugar. This was your other grandpa and once he fed us rutabaga and red jello in Florida.  Don’t forget them!  They loved you more than you will ever know.  You were their hope for the future.  You were the dreams they dreamed in the darkest night.

A bed of autumn leaves

The gate between worlds is wide open at this time of year.  You can talk to your grandmas and grandpas, aunts and uncles, all of them ghosts.  You can tell them about your life and listen for your inner thoughts to share stories in return.  They will tell you of their sojourn in the spirit world, in heaven, in the other place.  You must not label your thoughts imagination too hastily. Listen.  Take note.  Share the “imaginary” stories with those who knew them.  You may be surprised that your thoughts tell you stories of truth, stories your conscious mind never knew.  Believe.  Believe that the ghosts of your ancestors are only a breath away.  Only a sigh away on the autumn breeze.

The gate between worlds

The Day of the Dead.  I find it interesting that I was writing today, mostly fiction about those long dead.  About folks moving and breathing and loving and exploring and walking in the outdoors about 1932.  I was back among them, listening intensely to the footsteps they made almost a century ago.  The words flowed out so easily during the first writing session, and then proved more challenging later in the afternoon as I struggled to describe happenings in a century before my actual birth.

I went outdoors more often than usual today.  To clear the cobwebs from my writing mind.  First, I traveled over to Pequaming ( a nearby almost ghost-town and snapped about 80 photos.  You’ll see some of them maybe tomorrow.)  Later I wrote another hour’s worth of words from the distant past, and then Barry and I split up our last load of wood. Our last load of wood!  Did you hear that?  We’ve only been dealing in firewood since mid-winter.  Now our last wood is split, hauled and piled.  We’re almost two years ahead, rich in logs.  We sigh.  We relax.  Winter can almost come…as soon as we finish those other chores…

Boo!

I am feeling so…nostalgic…today.  So intimate with those who have died, those who have been dear loved ones.  People throw around the term “ghost” too easily.  The spirits of our mind and heart are so often our dear uncles and aunts, our grandmas and grandpas, real people like you and me.

Only the red of apples

Don’t forget to feed your dead today.  Feed them bright red apples.  Slices of pizza.  Feed them your thoughts, your love, your appreciation, your joy.

One day you, too, will be an ancestor.  Someday your great grandchildren may remember you.  Give you some pizza.  Pass it on through the generations–pass it on.

Get ready, get set…WRITE!

Floating on reflections

This post is really about an indoor adventure.  But since our indoor adventures sometimes mirror our outdoor adventures, they sometimes require announcement.

Here is my announcement:  starting tomorrow morning, November 1st, I will be writing my first 50,000 word novel.

Did anyone choke on his or her coffee at that announcement?

I hope not, for it is most assuredly going to happen.  We hope it’s going to happen.  We’re pretty sure it’s going to happen…

Life reflects itself on many surfaces

This novel-writing month is happening courtesy of NaNoWriMo.  (I dare you to say this really fast at least ten times!)  Here is what the folks at NaNo say about this process:

National Novel Writing Month is a fun, seat-of-your-pants approach to novel writing. Participants begin writing November 1. The goal is to write a 175-page (50,000-word) novel by midnight, November 30.

Valuing enthusiasm and perseverance over painstaking craft, NaNoWriMo is a novel-writing program for everyone who has thought fleetingly about writing a novel but has been scared away by the time and effort involved.

Because of the limited writing window, the ONLY thing that matters in NaNoWriMo is output. It’s all about quantity, not quality. The kamikaze approach forces you to lower your expectations, take risks, and write on the fly.

Make no mistake: You will be writing a lot of crap. And that’s a good thing. By forcing yourself to write so intensely, you are giving yourself permission to make mistakes. To forgo the endless tweaking and editing and just create. To build without tearing down.

As you spend November writing, you can draw comfort from the fact that, all around the world, other National Novel Writing Month participants are going through the same joys and sorrows of producing the Great Frantic Novel. Wrimos meet throughout the month to offer encouragement, commiseration, and—when the thing is done—the kind of raucous celebrations that tend to frighten animals and small children.

In 2008, we had over 119,000 participants. More than 21,000 of them crossed the 50k finish line by the midnight deadline, entering into the annals of NaNoWriMo superstardom forever. They started the month as auto mechanics, out-of-work actors, and middle school English teachers. They walked away novelists.

Yellow leaf in mud puddle reflections

Starting tomorrow morning I will now be maneuvering between TWO commitments, at least for the month of November.  Writing between 1,600-2,000 words a day on a novel AND going outdoors and writing a nightly blog.  Does this sound crazy?  Yes, it’s crazy.  Lets not forget two part-time jobs and a trip to San Diego mid-month to visit my son. 

Wet reflections in wind shield with leaf

You want to know what the novel is about?  Hmmmm…..  I don’t know.  I have a rough idea, a baby idea, a tiny plot.  But who knows what will come out of the typing fingers tomorrow morning?  You can start writing a love story and end up with a murder mystery.  A historical piece and end up with fantasy.  Fiction and end up with truth.  Or, probably more accurately, you start off writing fiction and end up with a reflection.

Reflections that leave you wondering "what...?"

Just wanted to let you know that my attention might be a little preoccupied this month.  Knock  me on the side of the head if you ask a question and I don’t answer.  If I forget to read some of your blogs with as much diligence.  If I start writing outdoor adventures that sound a little…strange.  You guys keep me “real”.  Please.

Red reflection

Actually, I think we need our outdoor times even more when we’re deeply involved in indoor activities.  We need to breathe fresh air, to exercise, to walk slowly in the weather, to clear away the cobwebs words string in our minds.  Don’t you agree?

P.S.  I raked leaves today.  Not once, not twice, but three times!  Usually Barry is running his little lawn tractor around, chopping up leaves.  But this year our grass is too wet for efficient chopping.  Hopefully it will dry out before snow.

Miracle!

The miracle of a buttercup on October 30th

“Tis the season when the leaves blow madly out of the trees.

The wind sings and the leaves fall.

The earth gleams lush with a yellow carpet of golden leaves, interspersed with bright red of maple, lavish green of birch, dusky- orange of oak.

The skeletons of trees remain, silhouetted against an autumn sky.

Grey skies and skeletons on the horizon

So you look up in the late October sky.  Watch out!  Duck!  There’s a leaf flying in your eye!  Swat it away and look up again.  Look at the skeletons of tree limbs on the horizon.  We are now at the time of year when the trees become bones.  No wonder we celebrate Halloween.  The world is filled with bones of trees everywhere…empty of colorful leaves…skeletons against the sky.

Wild basil in the ditch

It is indeed a miracle to discover a flower blooming at this time of year.  Everything looks so sparse.  So empty.  And then, in the oddest places, blooms a flower!  How could this happen?  It is as if the Universe kindly and gently speaks to us, saying very quietly, “You will find my miracles even in the darkest days of your life.  There I will bloom.”

Sky and branches

A Native American friend once said, “Even in the deep of winter you can dig beneath the snow and find green medicinal plants.”  Even when we think the world is stark and empty and void, plants grow beneath the surface, beneath the obvious, available for those with faith.

The gift of goldenrod

I always gasp a little, glimpsing the unexpected flowers.  To imagine that they exist even after the hard edges of frost browned most of the landscape.  These flower-children have been hiding in ditches and protected areas.  They offer the world new hope in these days of freezing.

Double-pronged in the sky

The wind blows and the rain spits and it’s 62 degrees at mid-afternoon.  Barry and I sit on the deck before dinner, perhaps the last time this season.  I sweep leaves off the deck, unto the lawn below.  Later I rake up some of the leaves (although he will mow the majority of them with his lawn tractor).

The wind keeps blowing fiercely, sending dozens of leaves to their winter resting-place.  It’s almost impossible to photograph their final plummet.  You snap picture after picture, but only photograph dots in the sky.  The wind also shudders the leaves on the grounds, making their autumn whispering sounds as they blow around in circles in the driveway.

But wait!  One lone leaf drifts downward.  Can we capture it? 

Another miracle, indeed.

Leaf, cloud, blue sky

Make a wish.  Open your hand. If you catch the leaf, your wish will come true.