Strawberry Fields

I grew up in Tulsa, Oklahoma.  It's not quite as black prairie as Kansas in that it is slightly hilly and actually has TREES, but it was ringed with truck farms.  In 1960 the small towns that were 20 miles from the center of Tulsa were the farms towns.  The farmers grew items that could be hauled to market in trucks, sometimes even pick up trucks - thus, 'truck farms'.  There was corn, tomatoes, every kind of bean, pea or squash, cucumbers,  eggplant, peppers and strawberries.  As each crop ripened, you got your paper sack, walked out into the fields and picked what you wanted.  Each farm wife had a small cash box on the worn front porch of the farm house. I can remember these make up free, slightly frowsy women in their house dresses covered with worn aprons  pushing open their creaking screen doors to take the quarters and dimes with their work hardened hands.  At my house going to pick fresh vegetables was as big a part of summer as the slip and slide.  It was also the only time of the year we ate fresh vegetables.  Other than potatoes and onions, and sometimes carrots, all our other vegetables were canned because fresh was expensive.  

I did love eating the vegetables, but I hated picking.  There were BUGS, and if the goal was corn, there were corn worms - fat, sluggy worms that seemed to always find my arm to crawl up.  Another rough spot of picking is that if you didn't arrive almost at the crack of dawn, it was hot; breathless, beating down sunstroke hot as you walked up and down the rows looking for whatever was ripe.  

As we have been vagabonding, I've been fortunate to live in three farm valleys.  The best by far was the Skagit Valley in northwest Washington.  They produced EVERYTHING (except tomatoes - too cool), and they especially produced berries.  I developed a taste for the just picked berry, and believe me, that's not hard.   The Satsuma Farm actually had an ice cream stand on their farm and mixed the freshly picked berries into the most divine shakes I've ever tasted.  

I was extremely happy to discover the Mt. Naomi Farm just north of Logan (1285 South 4500 North, Hyde Park) www.mtnaomifarms.com .   Immediately I signed up for their email notifications telling me when the berries would be ready to pick.  This past Saturday we went a strawberry pickin'.  If you haven't ever had berries fresh from the vine, then you won't know how remarkable it is to find a farm like this one. 

We met Brenda "Grab Life by the Berries" Meikle who owns this farm with her husband.  This was a portion of the second generation family farm that wasn't devoted to the dairy business.  They also grow alfalfa and hay, in addition to the berries. This is the third year that the strawberries have been planted, and they are finally making enough berries to sell.  There will also be blackberries later in the season.  Run don't walk to this farm for some of these luscious berries.  They are open for picking Saturdays in 7:30 - noon or other days by appointment.

Cache Valley is one of those unique places that has fertile land perfect for farming, just as the Skagit Valley is in Washington or the land around the Franconia Notch in New Hampshire or the farms around Tulsa in Oklahoma.  The farms no longer exist around Tulsa.  From 1960 to 1980 Tulsa doubled in size, and the city fathers didn't encourage high rise or multi-family housing, instead, it was large subdivisions and freeway development.  The farmland is gone and can't be reclaimed.  Farmland is a natural resource just like forests, mountain vistas and national parks.  I can already see the beginning ravages of suburban 'sprawl' creeping into the farmland of this valley.  I think the residents here need to be asking themselves what they want this valley to look like in 50 years.  Neglecting this question will result in losing something irreplaceable.   

Why Do I Write?

I'm doing my homework, good little student that I am, and suddenly after seven pages of reading the personal essay book, I have to stop and answer the question:  Why Do I Write?  Oh, this is not something I really wanted to get into.  You would think that because I'm a former English teacher, I would LOVE to write - wrong.  It was actually my least favorite part of teaching the subject; mainly because I wasn't very good at teaching GOOD writers.  (I'm really dreading having to comment on the other students' writing in this USU class.  I feel like such a fraud.  Can I just correct their grammar?)  I was actually very good at teaching kids who had never put a word on paper to learn how to do it. 

I know the reason I write now is different than the reason when I started this blog in 2007.  Initially, I was in the midst of having to accept some hard truths about myself and my health, and I used writing to help me sort out, accept and make sense.  I explored faith and the role it played in my life.

In 2008, I stopped writing.  I posted exactly two times about nothing;  It's a wonder my audience stayed with me.  I think if I had written, it would have helped me come to grips with new responsibilities and the re-ordering of my extended family's life.  I wish I could truthfully say I sorted through my mother's death, but that would take 3 more years.  I did come to a peace about my brother's death, and I spent a lot of time in 2008 accepting my father's dementia and the horror of relocating him against his will, and closing down their lives  Writing would have helped me, but I was too outwardly focused to use it.

In 2009, I found the passion again when we decided to cut ourselves adrift from the lives we had led for 20 years and take off adventuring.  No, we aren't climbing mountains or taking to the sea in a small boat, but we are opening ourselves to new places, new communities, new people.  Writing about the process of making this happen gave me the feeling I had something interesting to say.  I guess that says why I write in one sentence:  The feeling I have something interesting to say.

In 2010, 2011, and up to the present, I found my voice.  Yes, my entree to my audience is ostensively a travelogue, but I get the most responses from my readers when I write on a more personal level or when I muse and comment about people I've met - both individually and as as groups.  Another reason I've chosen this form is I'm acutely aware that many people read my stuff who can't (or won't) travel, but love to hear the word descriptions and see the pix.
I have to admit that while I do write for myself - a life chronicle, I'm flattered that I have an audience.           

 

The Horrible Hill

It doesn't look THAT bad, does it?  Just a sidewalk curving gracefully up and up shaded by newly verdant trees.   Well, what's that old saw?  LOOKS CAN BE DECEIVING.   We live only about 4 blocks (at most) from the USU campus, and we have to go up this hill every time we want to access the campus. 

Logan is lovely; the crown jewel of the Cache Valley, but it is perched right on the edge of the upturn into the mountains, and Utah State sits on top of one of the slightly risen plateaus at one edge of town.  Now, that doesn't sound like such a big deal, does it?  WRONG. 

There aren't too many things I admire about Arizona.  Everyone knows that I despise its overall 'brown' theme.  For some reason the desert just soaks up color and transforms it to buff, or sand, or beige, tan, almond, or my personal favorite:  terra cotta.  But one big smooth spot of Arizona, especially in the Phoenix area is that if you are in Paradise Valley, a misnomer if I've ever heard one, it is FLAT.  Bike riding is a pleasure.  You never have to contend with a hill of any size except for the few man made ones scattered here and there.

Logan, oh, Logan, hill is thy name.  My personal nemesis is the horrible hill I have to walk up every day, sometimes twice a day.  First, it's the culmination of two other smallish hills that I have to drag my uncool backpack on wheels up every morning at 7:30 am.  I'm slightly breathless when I get to the bottom of the H. H.  I gaze up, and each time think to myself, "I'm going to conquer you today, sucker!"    And every day the damn hill wins.  Oh, I finally get up it, but not without standing about half way up trying to suck as much air as possible into my lungs.

How steep is it, you ask?  Let me tell you that DRAKE (not me, but DRAKE who does numbers) estimates a 15% grade.  In the middle of the climb, you are almost face to face with the concrete, and notice the picture - they don't put handrails up for nothing, you know.   Even more ignominious are the lovely gliding girls and boys that effortlessly climb it.  I try to pretend that I'm contemplating the lovely view halfway up. but none of us are fooled for an instant.  Some days I think I can hear the hill laughing, but it's probably just the 20 somethings snickering at my obvious inability to walk up the H.H. without stopping.  

Ah, well, tomorrow is another day, and the view really is lovely..............         

The Yalie

Our daughter is going to Yale.  I'm more excited that she is.  The facts are that Sarah has been accepted at Yale to take two master's degrees over the next three years.  They even gave her $$ - not enough, in my opinion - but a big sum which will almost cover one out of the three years.  OK.  Good news.

Here's the interesting part of this news - I'm insanely happy and proud and it's like somehow her acceptance into Yale is because I'm such a great parent.  My mother used to say, "You're always a parent."  I've been at the job for 26 years now, and I still feel that my child's actions and decisions are a reflection on me.  I wonder do all parents feel this?  Are childrens' accomplishments and screw ups mirrors on how good or bad their parenting was?  As the parent, what's the length of time that you can bask in your children's successes and cringe at their failures? 

 My 53 year old brother was the ultimate screw up - intermittently battling drugs, and alcohol, twice divorced, losing his family, his livelihood and finally winding up living in our childhood home the last year of his life with our demented father.  My mother stood by him, defended him, bailed him out, loaned him money, and enabled him.  Amazingly, she loved him equally when he was a successful doctor, and when he lost his license to practice medicine.  The turmoil he caused went on for years.   Exasperated over his latest escapade with soupcon of sibling rivalry tossed in the mix, I confronted my Mother. "Why, why do you gloss over his problems, and constantly pick up the pieces?  She just looked at me.  "He's my son."  After that, there was need for no more discussion in her eyes.  He was her son, and she had obligations to him as his parent.   Period.

As far as I can tell there's no help books for parents of adult children.  Where's the "What to Expect When They're Grown" book?  How much parenting is too much parenting?  I have friends who call their mothers every day at a specified time.  I have other friends who see their parents casually as they would any other people they know.  And, I have some friends who feel their parents are a burden they can't put down or escape from.

I definitely have some parenting questions I would like answered:

1)  How long should you visit your adult children if you live away from them.

2)  What suggestions are helpful and what suggestions are interfering,

3)  When do you say, "No".

4)  Do you have a parenting obligation to let your adult kids move back into your house?

There are many more obvious questions, and of course, the standard answer of "it depends" just sucks.  I'll tell you one last thing:  Nobody told me when I started this parent gig that IT NEVER ENDS.  Naturally, on the day they get accepted into Yale, no problem................it's just those 'other times' that still have me worried.   

My Last First Day (Probably)

There it is.........the building where my Utah State University class will be held.  Going to this class will trigger my "last first day".  I counted up, and I have had 35 previous first days of school.  This will be my 36th.  And guess what?  Since this is probably my last time to have a first day of school, I've decided to really, really enjoy all the pleasures and the pains of the experience. 

The first thing is that the Professor sounded really upbeat and happy that I wanted to audit his class.  You have to get his/her permission to audit before you can start fencing with the bureaucrats in the university.  Surprised doesn't begin to capture my feelings.  I truly expected him to say, "I don't think so."  First hurdle jumped.

Next, I discovered that the Oklahoma University bureacrats I had encountered in 1968 had somehow frozen themselves in time, thawed out, and then beamed themselves to Utah.  While the Summer Citizen's literature specifically says that we are welcome to take USU REAL classes, the University bureacrats are not so sure..........  Trying to get the formal permission to audit involved  climbing 19 flights of stairs (literally) and being the go between for the Registrar and the Admissions people. 

 "Well, they said I filled out the form."
 "You're just supposed to open Extender." 
"Does that make any sense to you? "
"Summer Citizenship implies residency, right?"
"Who's Peter and why/when is he going to decide." 

These are just snippet highlights of the 'go between' conversation which lasted over an hour with me walking up and down the 19 flights of stairs.  The upshot is I got registered, but we're not sure for how long.   However, I'm 'in', and I bought the book which looks terrific.  I don't even think I'm going to sell it back.

Thirdly, I absolutely AGONIZED over what to wear the first day.  Drake advised me not to wear my Easter Egg outfit  (but I will at a later time period; I like it).  Sarah suggested that wearing my Texas Rollergirls T-shirt might be a little too over the top.  Lauren said, "But you are a Texas Rollergirls kind of person."  Then I was totally bummed because I didn't bring the Rollergirls T with me.  Asking my mother-in-law to mail it to me seemed a little neurotic.  The uniform of college now is the 'free' T-shirt and skinny jeans - well, I could do the free T-shirt; but my fat ass in skinny jeans ain't happening.  I finally settled on looking like myself - T-shirt I paid for, my blue nebula necklace, with thrift store regular legged jeans, but, hey they are Talbot's - and I only had to pay $1.95 for them.  (If you want to re-read the Texas Rollergirls Post, go back to:  http://jalyss.blogspot.com/2010/05/killa-killa-killa-fast-fast-fast.html 

I really want to be accepted by the 20 year olds.  I want them to like me, and most importantly, talk to me.  I can not possibly make you understand how tired I am of old people.  Sun City has lots of smooth spots, BUT one of the unpleasant truisms I've uncovered is that lots of the OP living there have two things in common:  They are pessimistic, and they are rigid in their thinking. It's understandable.  Many of them have experienced or are experiencing the things of life you don't put on your top ten list:  Deaths, loneliness, failing health, failing minds, frustration, difficulty processing change, feeling left out and left behind.  

Twenty somethings tend to think the world is this big, bright candy box they can hardly wait to open.  They are still trying on personas as easily as they change their clothes.  They are 'now', not yesterday, not 25 years ago, and they don't think they are going to hell in a handbasket.  

Sorry, sorry, digressed.   The reason there's a picture of the building is that I wanted to find it before the first day.  Remember the dream before the first day of (1) junior high (2) high school (3) college:  You're lost, you can't find the room, and when you finally do, everybody is already there seated and they all LOOK at you when you walk in.  Oh, and you're naked.  Well, no siree bob, that wasn't going to happen to me by jingo.

So......I found the building.  I know what I'm going to wear.  Now, I'm just worried, worried, worried that the class will be so sophisticated and so hard  and so electronic that I'll be a complete dodo.   And that managed to keep me awake for hours and hours before the first day.

Naturally, the first day was a piece of cake, and all the 20 somethings were much more scared, subdued, or maybe just asleep (class starts at 8am) than I was.  The Prof is SO young, but seems to have a lot to say in sort of a stream of consciousness way, and I've already made some class friends.  And, now I'm working on knitting this group together as a unit - class will be so much better if I can do it.  They don't even know it's happening.  AHA - you can take the teacher out of the classroom, but you can't keep her skill set from showing up even if she's the student.  And finally, the class I'm taking?  CREATIVE WRITING: NON FICTION.  It's actually essay writing which I discovered today (the 2nd day) is what you have all been reading for the past four years.  Hey, who knew? 

Flowers, Anyone?

As we are finishing up our first couple of weeks in Logan, we have discovered that these people love their summers, and they cram as much as possible into them.  Winter is great for skiing, snowmobiling, snow shoeing, etc, but it is also long, extremely cold, and a majority of time is spent indoors.  Thus, the Visitor's Center puts out a weekly calendar of 'events'. the number of which is unbelievable for a town of 50,000.  There are often multiple things happening on the same day.  The events are things like  symphony performances, plays, operas, concerts, improv comedy, art shows, farmer's markets, and flower shows.  The first flower showing of the summer was showcased this weekend at the First Presbyterian Church:  The Iris Show.  This kind of stuff just hits my sweet spot.  

We walked into the Presbyterian version of the fellowship hall to find hundreds of iris.  They were displayed singly as well as in arrangements.  We met a delightful woman (Joan) who divides her time between Indiana and Logan, Utah.  She's got iris in both places.  In Indiana she has over 100 varieties in her garden, and she was also showing in the Logan Iris Show a really gorgeous arrangement using a variety of containers.  She was an enthusiastic teacher explaining that there are thousands of varieties of iris.  They do 'come up' each spring without having to be replanted, but they don't divide and multiply each year like lilies.  They bloom from late March/early April until late June.  The  earliest bloomers are the dwarfs, with the ones of medium height next, and finally the tall boys.  Iris are judged on several criteria including having a 'terminal bud' (a flower at the top of the stem), how straight the stem is, and whether or not there are multiple buds on a stem.  We saw little ones, giant ones, two toned, single color, iris that were almost black, and ones that were actually a pearl gray.  

However, why talk about flowers when you can see flowers.  Here are the pictures:

https://picasaweb.google.com/jalyss1/2012UtahIrisFlowerShow?authkey=Gv1sRgCPXtisjDtrezkgE#
   

The Birding Lesson

We made a second trip to the Bear River Bird Migratory Refuge, but this time we didn't go alone.  Our new next door neighbors, Jim and Connie, who are also here Summer Citizening for the first time, are big time bird people.  I knew they were pretty savvy when they could identify birds by their song without even seeing them!  It turns out that they have been birding for many years all over the country.  They confided that Texas is one of their favorite places to go birding because of the diversity of both birds and terrain.

I shared that Drake had bought me a set of birding binoculars for Christmas, and I would appreciate a birding lesson.  We set our plans to go the the Logan wetlands which fell through because when we arrived at the wetlands, the fire department was doing controlled burns and there were little tongues of fire everywhere we wanted to go.  What the heck!  We decided to hit the migratory refuge.  This trip was altogether different when accompanied by experts.

We were so impressed with their encyclopedic knowledge of the birds we saw.  I learned the correct way to use my binoculars - to enhance my ability to FIND the birds and actually see them.  I discovered what I THOUGHT was a warbler.........is in fact a yellow headed black bird.

We also saw avocets, which according to Jim is somewhat of a rare sighting - you only see them in certain locales.  Plus, we caught this couple in a courting ritual.

I discovered that there are 'super birders' - which seems to mean people who are obsessed with seeing birds, finding birds, and who actively seek out birds they haven't seen.  I laughed  when Connie told me, "I have too much imagination to be a good birder."  Later, she explained that the super birder types know exactly what bird they are going to see in a specific location, and any suggestion or voicing that it might be a different bird than expected is met with a distinctly chilly reception and outright disdain - hence, her comment of 'having too much imagination'.

We saw several different types of ducks :  Cinnamon Heads (yes, their heads are cinnamon colored), and a  funny looking duck with a bright blue bill.  The most fun sighting of the day was the grebe with her chicks.  It turns out that this is common; a mom grebe carrying a baby on her back as she swims around.  it was a great sight. 

Examples of going 'birding' with someone who actually has some knowledge:  Seeing a snowy egret (there are two types - difference is size and leg/feet color), but understanding that the bird is in 'mating plummage' - the ruffles around it's head.  Also, we spotted a Great Blue Heron with a twisted up neck - indicative of the bird getting ready to 'strike' a fish under the water.             

 This was a delightful trip with new friends.  And to top the day off, everyone knows how obsessed I am about knowing what kind of vegetation I'm seeing in my new locale, well, I had seen a bush/tree at the refuge which I had never seen before.  Obligingly, Jim explained that it was a Tamarisk, an Australian import to fight river bank erosion which was a poorly thought out import - it's a water hog and it crowds out native plants.  Sure is pretty in  bloom, though. 

What a great day with new friends.