Short Stories
Jump to PoetrySandbagging
Nearly every time it rains and the gutters on the street fill with water, I am reminded of a memory of my mother. You see, my mom has always been an advocate for the environment. She was the first person to enforce in my mind the idea of “Reduce, Reuse and Recycle.”
When we were young she had a tower of recycle bins in the garage where we would sort our aluminum, tin, plastic, glass and paper. Glass was on the bottom. Obviously. Once they would fill up, she would load them in our Subaru and drive them over an hour to the nearest recycle center in Ogden, Utah. (Luckily, Granny and Tia lived there too.)
So, like many things, my mom wanted to utilized everything to the max. Whether it was wearing our hand-me-down clothes until they were in shreds, packing left overs in old margarine containers, or using scrap computer paper cut into quarters and stapled as note pads. We reused. it. up.
One of mom’s biggest conservation efforts is with water. She informed us that it is likely that we will run out of drinkable water long before we run out of food. Only *3% of water on the planet is fresh water and a sizeable portion of that is frozen in the ice caps. We have always been encouraged not to mistake its convenience with its abundance.
One summer water was scarce. We lived in the high alpine desert of southwest Wyoming, so to keep our Kentucky Bluegrass alive we had to water it supplementally. But why waste such a precious resource on mere aesthetics? Especially on the front lawn. Because of it’s proximity to the road, you can’t even use it that much.
Well that summer my mom began rain harvesting water, if you can call it that. But in order to harvest any water, it must rain. That year she bought sand bags and strategically put them in the gutter at the front of our house. Honestly, they were kind of annoying. The majority of the time it wasn’t even raining. You had to maneuver around them in order to park on the street and for a 16 year old learning to parallel park, it was not fun.
One blessed day, the sandbags became less of a parking hazard and transformed themselves to serve their one true purpose. The Heavens opened up and in traditional western fashion a raucous thunderstorm took over our corner of the world. The skies were dark and ominous and once they opened up the street began to flood.
It was a beautiful thing to watch. As the water rushed down the street, the U-shapes of the sandbags began to form little lakes. The street edge of the lawn was flooding nicely, however the water didn’t extend to the thirst of the middle.
My sister Melanie and I sat on the couch in our living room as it poured outside. Enjoying the beauty of the storm from the comfort of our roof. Our mom must have been busy doing something elsewhere in the house because at a certain point, she ran upstairs to the coat closet to grab her umbrella and ran outside through the garage.
Mel and I were a little concerned because her umbrella was older than either of us and barely opened. Umbrella’s don’t stand a chance in Wyoming. Now we were intrigued. We sat up on the couch peering out the front window. Mom goes running out into the yard with her rust colored, broken, short, un-fully opened umbrella in one hand and a half-cut plastic milk jug in the other.
She runs to the pools forming at the edge of the yard and begins furiously scooping half gallons of rainwater and throwing it to the middle of the lawn. Scoop after scoop, chucking water this way and that. We watch in awe. Her cut-off jean shorts and t-shirt beginning to soak through, but that doesn’t stop her. That lawn needs a drink!
As we kneel up on the couch poised at the window, watching this show intently; our neighbor Dale peers out of her garage, daring to walk into the storm of her driveway to get a better look at what’s going on next door. The look of pure bewilderment is still seared in my memory as she shakes her head slightly and walks back inside.
Like most thunderstorms, it didn’t last long but the memory of my mom’s dedication to conservation, will last forever.
Late Nights and White Powder Ain't What They Used To Be
Life is funny, you know… in a ha-ha sort of way. Sometimes it folds back on you and it makes you
wonder what happened to those times?
You know; the “good ole’ ones.”
Sleep these days is precious. Once my boys go down, they are like little time bombs, ticking through the few quiet hours of the night. Each second that passes is one second closer to when they go off, disrupting any continuous thought or emotion. But in this solace of congregational, congested, face down, snoring; I write about late nights for my own memory of such times; filled with cleavage for aesthetics rather than sustenance.
A night in the not so distant past, my friend and realistic confidante and I, sat up talking about the joys of child birth. Cal hasn’t had the privilege of tearing your nether regions for the sake of procreation yet; but she seems intrigued. As a nurse, she aids all women, regardless of race, class, creed or national origin, in the art of holding your nipple like a hamburger and keeping wounds sanitary near feces.
My births have been fairly textbook; natural, full of breathing and primal meditations. However, my hind end had more trouble than I remember reading about in biology. Anal fissures weren’t discussed to me by my teachers or by ANY of my health care providers, but that didn’t stop it from splitting after all of the pushing for life was accomplished.
Only one honest friend discussed the horrors of the postpartum ordeal. Her sweet and even tempered voice told tales of flesh being torn apart and the searing pain that accompanies urine in a fresh and bloody wound. Due to her honesty, I developed a rigorous consumption of liquids while in the hospital, to 1) stay hydrated and 2) dilute my pee so much that it almost rinsed my gash rather than contaminate it. With the latter being the more important of course.
So, this brings me to the evening Cal and I sat up chatting in the lamp light, enjoying adult conversations in the stillness of night, as the time bombs slept. It was late, you know, like 11, so we decided to call it. We quietly brushed our teeth in the bathroom and I walked her out to the kitchen so I could drink my nightly warm glass of Miralax as my bedtime ritual. A mitigation effort that is better than the sharp and shooting pain of that evil little fissure.
I can be honest with Cal. After all, she see’s people in all sorts of states. My honesty can potentially help her with her own regularity postpartum and or help her patients to know that even if you don’t take anything more than IB Profin for pain, you can still end up with a rock in your bowels that doesn’t seem like your own body made it; nor has the capacity to expel it.
As we stand in the kitchen, mixing my warm laxative cocktail, a light knock at the door is heard. I thought my sister, who had been staying the weekend with us, had possibly locked herself out. So, not thinking, Cal and I answer it; Miralax bottle in hand.
In the light of the porch stands a beautiful, hip young woman; obviously startled more by our
presence than we were of hers. She stammers “is this, uh, something something and uh something
else?” We laugh and say no, it must not be; and tell her she should try side street behind the
house.
She turns off and into the night, quickly departing.
I look at Cal and she looks back at me, both of us smiling. It’s cute that some young thing thought
she was going to a college party and found us instead.
Maybe we could have been the party she was hoping for in years past; instead she ended up on a
dark porch talking to two women who were unwilling to share their company or their Costco size
bottle of hydro-osmotive laxative.
Late nights and white powder aren’t what it used to be.
It's Not Just Pie and Beer
Photos courtesy of Utah Public Radio and southweberstake.org
I have always known that my ancestors came across the plains in covered wagons. It seemed like everyone’s did the way my church talked about it, but growing up and moving beyond religion, I realize that most did not.
I remember stories about my great great great grandma burying her baby on the plains. They had to bury her under the trail where the wagons traveled to prevent coyotes and other scavengers from getting her. I remember my mom telling us that they watched for hours as the wagons in their party left and rolled over her baby, knowing they would never see her or this place where she was laid to rest again.
I can’t imagine leaving your home with what you hope is enough food and water for a journey that is unknown. Heading west, trekking towards what you hope is a better life, not knowing what lies ahead, only knowing what you leave behind.
As a teenager, we did a pioneer trek on the original trail the Saints took to the Salt Lake Valley. It was southwest Wyoming in July, so the weather was variable. My mom had sewn skirts, aprons, pantaloons and bonnets for my sister and I, and dropped us off at the church early one morning knowing full well that she would pick us up in a few day’s time from the same location healthy and happy, all the better for having experienced such a venture.
Upon arriving they divided us into groups or “families” separating us from our own family unit in order to rely on others from our Stake. It was nerve racking; I didn’t really know anyone else from my arbitrary family. What I really wanted was to be with my OWN sister and rely on someone that actually meant something to me, but I could see what they were going for and tried to play along.
We were assigned a 5lb bag of sugar, that was our newborn baby we called “Butch” we swaddled him, double checked our supply list and headed out to the caravans. In this instance, it wasn’t Calistoga wagons, but suburban’s, vans and trailers that transported our handcart company and all our supplies to the trail.
We headed off into the vast expanse of the high alpine desert, where the harsh conditions permit few forms of life. The rolling horizon was dry and only ragged sagebrush and sparse tufts of prairie grass filled our young eyes. Modern conveniences, transportation, protection and heating left us somewhere east of Fort Bridger, Wyoming. Here the trail, over 100 years later, was still etched into the landscape; two tracks, dead from thousands of wheels that rolled over them.
Our energy was high as each “family” loaded their own handcarts, wrapped our sugar babies and set off on the plains. Smiles and laughter was heard as hundreds of excited youth started our pretend journey, 150 years after our ancestors. I remember thinking that by the time my great great great grandma got here, her spirits wouldn’t have been so high. We had the advantage of knowing there was an end in sight. Our leaders couldn’t let us die out here. We would spend a night or two under the stars and then return safely to the arms of our parents and a hot meal.
Our handcart company set out, hundreds of youth, a few brave chaperons and a piece of a historic journey we hoped to recreate. We held hands, hugged baby sugar Butch tight and sang songs like the Saints Go Marching In and the like. Our bonnets kept the high elevation sun from our eyes and we walked in the dust of thousands of pioneers.
The sweet jerky and hard tack were pretty gross if I’m totally honest, but I knew it wouldn’t kill me to play along. I remember wanting to trade another family for some peppered jerky, because Sweet was the absolute worst, but instead I ate it because that was part of the game.
It was a long walk. I remember looking to the far horizon as our handcart company stretched along the plains and wishing myself to the front, over and over. Knowing that that’s not how it worked, but hoping none the less; and wondering how often my ancestors did the same. As we climbed, the sage greens and light browns of the prairie grew grey as the sky darkened above us. The angry clouds intent on helping us feel the pain of our ancestors, closed in.
As we ascended, the pressure was building, swirling and darkening. The rain came first, like tears of the past, breaking down our hope and resilience as our crisp bonnets melted and our heavy cotton dresses absorbed the sky. Up we continued, the thunder growling and reminding us of the reality of mortality and the fact that our re-creation included metal handcarts, as the lost art of Wheelwrights died with the advent of tires.
The lightning began to crash all around us, especially at the top of the pass. I remember looking to the front of our train and now being grateful that I was closer to the back. We kept going, because what else can you do? It’s 1997 and no one had a cell phone and there certainly wasn’t coverage out in the middle of the Oregon trail. The snow and sleet began. Our dresses froze and each icy step hit the back of your legs like nails in tender flesh. Screams of terror and distress couldn’t be heard as the Wyoming wind howled the cries of the past.
As we entered camp, truly exhausted we were jubilant to be together. Now in the safety of our circles we could smile and laugh about our “harrowing journey.” Our dresses dried around the campfires and we slept under the clear and constantly changing western skies.
The morning sun brought a renewed sense of strength and determination. We had our ration of hard tack and sweet jerky and set out. The rest of the trip was less memorable. At some point, we passed the point where the Saints split from the Oregon trail and headed towards the Salt Lake Valley, which seemed incredibly significant. I still remember the sky and the horizon where the Y was.
Baby Butch died on the trail. We had to bury our sugar sack without proper shovels and leave him for the ants because coyotes don’t have much of a sweet tooth. My bonnet never had the same amount of starch and the dirt from our skirts had to be hosed off by my mom.
It was a wild experience and I am so glad I was able to do it. I can’t imagine how our leaders felt as the lightning crashed all around us with our metal carts, it was a liability nightmare. But now as I enjoy some Pie and Beer on Pioneer Day I smile and laugh, knowing that we are probably the softest generation to ever exist.
Here’s to cell phones, airplanes, GPS, quick dry clothes, and peppered jerky. Happy Pioneer Day y’all!
Poetry
Let the Outside In
Take that breath of clean crisp air,
as the wind rustles your hair,
climb the mountain as you go,
listen to the water flow,
bask in sunlight as you bathe,
don't let them tell you to "behave,"
bare your soles to the ground,
that is where your mother is found.
Pennies in the Sun
“I like to jump around that penny! It is so shiny in the sun.”
The copper gleamed and flipped from heads to tails on the backyard trampoline.
We jumped and laughed as we avoided the one cent toy.
We can jump into the dark, until the neighbors get annoyed with our laughter.
Sit down and talk with me about little girl thoughts and dreams.
You don’t need that big pink plastic princess palace,
we should trade it for that penny on a trampoline in the afternoon sun.
Your Zen beauty amazes me. At six years old, “Crack the Buddha,” not the Egg.
Can you jump into the lotus position and fall toward the earth, as if it were your fall from innocence?
Big inquisitive brown eyes, longing for understanding and control of her environment, but having none.
Greybird
Greybird, overcast, mostly cloudy with cottony skies, that descend into rain streaks, above the valley.
The mountains loom behind the sheerness of the mist, aware of their presence and unknown vastness.
Where the buffalo roam, sagebrush, prairie, homesteads and barns.
Mormon Row lines the middle of nowhere and persists against the wind, snowdrifts and imposing civilization.
Cottonwoods tell of the route of the river, giving landscape to the desolate.
Wyoming winter, near its’ end, as Bluebirds flit from post to tree.
Snow flurries suggest spring is at bay, the diminishing drifts tells us it is not far away.
Life continues its cycle, even when you want it to cease. Growth through loss seems counterproductive.
But as one cuts back a tree, plant or flower, each springs forth new buds, in new directions, taking shape through experience.
As the sky envelopes the peaks to the west I can only hope they will reemerge from the darkness of today, into the light of tomorrow.
St. Maries Spontaneous Confession
I should tell you something I haven’t told before, about a time when I was young and rebellious.
In a town, outside of town we decided to take what wasn’t ours, to get to a place we had never been.
Along the banks of the Bennewah, we broke into the Country Club and stole their Crown.
We walked with the moonlight, up the dirt road, to the familiar field where the baptism in the Royal waters commenced.
Ponderosa’s, lilacs, lilies, the smell of rain in the Cooley. The Flying D, North of Rocky Point.
Terrible was the taste of the Kool-Aid and Crown, but it took us to that place of initiation.
Under the stars of an Idaho sky we drank… we drank until we fell down from dancing in the alfalfa.
We heard the deer come quietly out of the forest, to take the sprouts that were fresh.
Their steps were felt as much as they were heard; as they grazed the virginal foliage.
Once we had drank all of our potion, we laid there under it’s spell; breathing the cool summer air.
We spoke of times past, we spoke of the present, until we got to now.
We wondered why it had taken so long to get to where we were then.
If I could go back to the days of youth and rebellion, I would walk up that dirt road again.
I would dance under the moonlight, listen to the deer in the alfalfa, sip a sip of our potion, and linger with you there.
Amokuru: What’s the News?
“Who’s Rwanda?”
“Why should I care?”
She is dying,
her scars are still there.
Difference caused,
by Colonial Crown,
banana jungles,
nation up-side-down.
Lake Kivu explodes,
like political tensions,
Hutu…Tutsi
news didn’t mention.
Kibuye graveyards,
church, school, home;
this is hell
internationally condoned.
Her mountains, tainted,
the rivers ran red,
baby left crying,
900,000 dead.
Monarch's Mexican Migration
Flutter by, butterfly
in a lackadaisical manner.
A Monarchs gold
and a lilacs lavender
and one bright blue
like a summer
tank top,
What makes the butterfly
more beautiful than
a moth?
Tell me about your travels,
from flower to stream;
grace my shoulder with your
presence.
Your wings tell secrets of
symmetry and flight.
Iris, velvet, Mexican migration.