An explanation to new readers of this blog:
Day 50 is the next "memory" from a 50th Anniversary
gift from our children---a cookie jar loaded with 365
memories on paper strips which we open one day at
a time; I took to writing them on this blog and I plan
to continue for a full year publishing them in book
form in four volumes beginning Book 1 (1 -90).
Day 50
The hours it
took Becky to roll over
and when she was
almost “Comfy”---
“Lay still1” Why
did she even
have her own
bed?
When
our Rachel Rebecca as a baby, she enjoyed sleeping with big sister, Beth.
Trouble was, Becky could never find a comfortable sleeping position, so she
tossed and turned, rolled and wrangled all around the bed until daylight
finally came leaving tolerant sister unrested. Oh! Boy!
Some
people just seem to rest better than others; maybe it goes deeper than that?
Dad
just had to “spoil” the kids with everything. The previous admission of a
“surprise” for the girls at bed time attests to that fact. Wow! Imagine
that!---my fault…again! Umm! Hmm!
Yeah,
I know---Guilty! Cool-aide and cheese at bed time after dragging it out for
hours. Thank God the girls finally grew up; Thank God that I still haven’t.
And,
now, I have the grandkids to “spoil”! Hey! I’m good at it; lots of practice! Amen!
Becky
eventually determined to sleep in her own bed---
Ah1…Cookie Jar Sweet Memories!
Plus: Part 2 of 6
Mountain Stirrings (continued)
On
the trek up the mountain, when he came out of a turn in such position that the
sky opened to his purview, the blazing bright Colorado sun temporarily blinded
his vision causing Logan to slow his progress to a mere crawl, for safety’s
sake; concentration became the keyword, demanding all his attention and skills.
Once he caught sight of a pesky hoary marmot scampering from atop a huge
boulder and then quickly disappearing into a hole between the rocks, probably
its den, for escape and security from the interloper; no other game presented
itself to his view on the two hour venture; he fully expected to see an array
of animals, once he reached tree line. Myriad marmots, for sure, probably some
mule deer, and, with luck, the elk herd might visit the secluded lake which he
could see once he reached his perch on the summit boulders.
He
had never seen antelope in the park as they preferred the open areas of the
high plains desert topography spread across the west from Kansas and Nebraska
on toward the setting sun; up Wyoming-way and in Montana; on several occasions,
he had spied Rocky Mountain Big Horn sheep but had never encountered those
magnificent animals in the central part of this colorful state. He had, once,
caught a fleeting glimpse of three Bighorn as he rounded a blind curve on a
mountain road in far northwestern Colorado.
Antelope
were the speedy wraiths of the high plains while Big Horn existed as faint grey
wisps of ghost-wraiths on the sheer cliff precipices of the very far reaches of
the highest peaks. These agile sheep could climb a vertical flat cliff-face
nearly as well as the fleet-footed goat; those bearded demons literally ran up
a perfectly smooth mountain side never missing a step.
Marvels
of the natural world never ceased to amaze his perceptions and Logan held a
deep and abiding consideration, affection, respect and gratitude for the
generous offering. It was this reverence he sought to capture and convey in his
artwork; that desire, he handily accomplished.
Approaching
timberline on his inexorable quest, trees began to clearly identify his
nearness as the vegetation began to thin in density and shorten in height; the
revelation began about the nine thousand foot altitude, very subtle in its
announcement which became definitely pronounced by his reaching an additional
five hundred feet in elevation. Getting decidedly sparser as Logan continued
upward, all trees disappeared at the ten thousand five hundred foot level as he
passed tree line at which point the tundra became evident. His eastward view
displayed the summit about a mile ahead; clear, cerulean blue entertained a
dazzling yellow orb of high intensity.
Logan
donned his old ball cap, then adjusted his mirrored sunglasses to dim the
glare. Sun light became four percent more intense for every thousand feet above
sea level. Still, in the open confines of the Jeep, he was intently aware of
the frigid temperature at these altitudes; he involuntarily shivered as he
zipped the coat tight and pulled up the collar. The wind was brisk.
Surmising
correctly that the parking area at the summit would be sparsely occupied had
proved to be correct; four sedans, three pick-up trucks, two towing campers,
each with Iowa plates, indicative of an extended family traveling together on
an annual vacation and a large, custom-painted RV which had been parked at the
far edge of the lot, probably to keep it from getting “door-dinged”, or, worse,
were the only vehicles present. Still early, the clock had not quite reached
ten a.m. The full onslaught of city-slicker wanna-be mountaineers would shortly
begin in a lethargic trickle, getting into full swing between the noon hour and
one in the afternoon; by four, the exodus would get underway, a small
percentage trekking on westward, backtracking the southern entrance route which
Logan had just traversed with fully ninety out of every hundred retracing their
tracks eastward, down the mountain to Estes Park and points southward. Logan
would be long on his way by then, outfoxing the horrid crowd both ways.
Choosing
a front row parking spot about ten slots from the restrooms, he maneuvered the
Jeep past the vacancy and backed in, facing south and affording him a fine view
of impressive Long’s peak, stretching some fourteen thousand-plus feet into the
blue heaven expanse. Exquisite!
There
he sat for a full fifteen minutes, taking in the spectacular vista-view.
Incredible!
Logan
had spent a bit better than half of his thirty-six years in the Rocky
Mountains; he never tired of the adventure; each day chock full of unexpected
events, enough to fill a lifetime.
Grabbing
the half empty water bottle from the drink holder on the dash, he fished
another un-opened plastic container from his old cooler strapped in behind the
passenger seat; the second one he secured in his left jacket pocket for later
consumption; the first he held onto.
As
Logan exited the vehicle, he retrieved his sketch pad and several pencils and
his camera.
After
utilizing the facilities, he paused near a trash can and drained the liquid
contents of the half-finished water bottle. When he tossed the empty vessel
into the receptacle, he absently took notice of a dark green sedan pulling in
next to his Jeep. Dismissing the incident without further thought, he thrust
his hands into the jacket pockets and headed up the gentle slope of the trail.
At
random points spaced about one quarter distance each of the total to his
intended destination, Logan paused to do a three hundred and sixty degree slow
rotation to take in the beauty of the peaks surrounding him, snapping a few
photos for future reference for sketches.
On
his second stop as his revolution brought his vision back to the parking lot,
Logan caught sight of a man and boy just beginning the ascent; apparently they
had arrived in the green car he had observed, earlier. The boy, about twelve,
or so, appeared to be severely overweight and the man, probably the boy’s
father, had covered about a hundred feet up the slope, ahead of the youngster.
The man kept turning around and yelling something to the child which Logan
could not decipher at the distance and with a steady breeze interfering with the
words as they came to his position in a muted, garbled fashion. The father was
motioning in an exaggerated manner and it was quite obvious that he was coaxing
the boy to hasten his climb. Logan shook his head.
The
better part of a half hour later, Logan reached the base of the jumble of huge
boulders at the end of the trail and turned to view the surrounding vista; the
agitated father had reached slightly beyond the half-way point of the climb,
but the obese child had not yet come to the first quarter marker. The father
continued his wild gyration antics as he impatiently waved the boy forward; the
kid’s face, even at the distance to Logan, was beet-red.
Stepping
off the end of the blacktop trail and onto a well-worn path etched in the
tundra between the massive boulders at the base of the huge jumble, Logan began
his ascent to the summit, about thirty feet above his present location. Once on
top, he took in the circle of mountain peaks on every point of the compass. On
his second rotation, he snapped myriad pictures of the incredible vista; Long’s
Peak, to his immediate south, towered over its domain.
A
frigid breeze born in the northwest and streaming over the snow covered peaks
caught his eye and forced a tear to escape the deep blue, crystal orbs; Logan
wiped at the inconvenience with the back of his gloved hand.
“Damn!”
He breathed the curse in a whispered lament.
Then,
in self-confession of his demonic transgression, added, shaking his head, “You
old fraud! Are you ever going to get over her? Or,” he wondered, “when are you
ever going to do something about that particular annoyance?”
He
smiled. “Annoyance!? Certainly. Yes! Indeed! But, not an unpleasant
contemplation.”
Suddenly,
Logan felt warm as he flushed, savoring the memory. “Damn!” Again!
Continuing
to chastise himself within his mind, he admitted that the wind might have
precipitated the crying tear betrayal, but, the beauty of this vista, one of
his very favorite points of perspective for reflection, brought forward his
secreted love and admiration for his Mary Helen who, somehow, managed to remain
within his subconscious until some emotional interference would propel her
lovely memory into his conscious thoughts.
Must
be “Love!” He laughed at his absurd wonderings.
Again,
Logan shook his head and wiped away another bothersome tear from a cold cheek.
She was married with two kids living somewhere in southern California, probably
enjoying the “great adventure” of life with some successful, bronzed hunk,
wrapped comfortably in the “Golden glow” of eternal sunshine, satiated in the
impossible dream. Hell! Logan doubted if the delightful beauty would even
remember his name, or him. Just another hopeless-romantic. A dreamer!
And,
about: “Doing anything about his pre-occupation? Well? In a word: No! At least,
not today---and, honestly…probably not in this world or in this life. He shook
his head a third time.
“She
could: Wait!” He decided for the thousandth time. “And, so could he; he’d have
to!”
(Tomorrow: Part 3 of 6)
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