Comma Dot Comma

This morning, climbing up the hill behind our house as doves, quail, lizards, and snakes leapt away from my oncoming feet, a recurring idea of mine re-recurred. It’s not an original idea but I find it fun to mull over: how much does the landscape affect one’s perception of How Things Really Are? Like, is the world full of possibility and opportunity, or something to be survived through great struggle and suffering? Do we have a sense of enveloping abundance, or looming menace? These are false dichotomies, but gimme a break, I’m just throwing out examples. I’m not up to the task of philosophizing at great length, so instead I’ll do an inventory of how I’ve been landscapeified.

Ages Birth to Two: Los Angeles basin. I don’t remember much from this era, if anything. A sense of ease and mildness. My parents took me to the ocean and when you’re that small, you have to assume that everything you experience is normative, the way things are supposed to be. So I think I have a semi-conscious belief that everywhere I live should be bordered by restless waters.

Ages Two to Fourteen: Small logging town below a mountain in Northern California. I remember the smell of pine trees everywhere. We used to build forts out of fallen branches and piled up pine needles. My hands would get covered with sap from tree-climbing and it would stick there for a couple days. My parents took us kids out rock climbing, hiking, camping, skiing, swimming, and fishing. They taught us wilderness survival skills and what you could eat in the forest. The whole world was cool and shady, and nothing could sneak up on you.

Ages Fourteen to Eighteen: Near an active volcano in a hot, sunny, agricultural valley (still Northern California). Driving in any direction from town, I’d pass by orchards of olives and nuts. The tree trunks were so carefully spaced that they’d create pulsing optical illusions as I went past. Open fields were dotted with basalt boulders that had blown out of the volcano, and slick lava channels in the hills had turned into creeks with underwater tunnels. They fed into wide, flat, straight rivers that flowed through the valleys. We’d ride down them for miles on inner tubes. For field trips we’d go to the volcano and climb down in the cindercone or visit Bumpass Hell, the boiling, sulfurous mudpot area where some explorers had run into trouble. The mix of textures in the enviroment in general hinted at upheaval, the unexpected hidden below the prosperous soil.

Ages Eighteen to Twenty-Four: Another agricultural valley, this time in Oregon. I will save this and other landscapes for a later installment.

Last night, as we pulled into our parking space after a successful CD-trading venture (One of our finds was the lovely Extra Golden), something writhed in the headlights. A very yellow something, or rather, group of somethings. We got out to inspect. It was a handful of caterpillars, anywhere from two to four inches long, with big red spikes on their business ends. Their legs rotated like joysticks and took them zooming around the parking space at an alarming rate. We inspected them like the vaguely interested urbanites we are, and then retreated into the house, happy with our impromptu evening zoology and equally happy to abandon it.

Caterpillars are interesting when they are few in number. When they reveal their intent to take over, that’s another situation altogether. This morning I found that the few scouts of the previous night had given way to a huge migratory wave coming off the mountain behind our house. It was as if someone had centrifuged yellow paint across every road and sidewalk, except that most of the paint splatters moved, quite swiftly. My internet research tells me that every few years they come in such numbers that their flattened bodies cause road closures due to the slick. This brood seems a little more localized– At the pottery studio, which is in a similarly undeveloped area but several miles north, there wasn’t a single yellow squirmer to be seen. This afternoon on my return, I found them mostly ground into the roads but still determinedly clinging to the walls of the condo and the screen door. They squirmed and fell with loud plops as I hurriedly turned the key and swung it open. It was a close call– there were a few on the ground that had poked their noses over the threshold. I begged them not to come in the house.

Here’s a good picture of one from http://www.calflora.net/wildplaces/index.html

They are the larva of the White-lined Sphinx moth, which sometimes tricks people into thinking it’s a hummingbird. F-f-f fascinating, I’m sure. Imagine being about its size, when it rears up with its red horn and simultaneously oozes green stuff from its mouth. That would be scary.

For some reason I keep getting surprised by the mix of loveliness and trouble that I encounter as I move through life. There are very few pure moments– everything is jumbled together. I’m thinking about Sudan but Arizona insists on oozing its gorgeousness all over my metaphorical windscreen. A drive of an hour or two in almost any direction will yield gasp-worthy vistas; a close study of any square yard of mountainside compels me to look closer, and yet closer, at the intricately balanced system of flora and fauna.

To wit:

Oak Creek Canyon, near Sedona

View of Sedona’s Red Rocks from a mesa top near Prescott

Desert Flowers with a Blurry Butterfly

Rainbow outside Tuscon

View at dusk, northbound from Tuscon

I was sleeping in the car yesterday with my mouth gaping and my head lolling from side to side (my usual mode) when Dr. G. woke me. First he patted my knee. When that didn’t work, he put his fingers under my chin and gently closed my mouth. I jolted upright, feeling vague shame at falling asleep again and at my incorrigibly floppy jaw. But then the car curved around a bend, and the red and white mesas surrounding Sedona loomed over the brush- and cacti- covered terrain. I’ve admired these formations in magazines and calendars, but when they unexpectedly fill the skyline it is another experience altogether. It’s a feeling of subjugation, of being cowed and out-maneuvered by beauty. Where the desert around Phoenix is hardy, windswept, requiring the closest of attentions, the mesas are drastic and extravagant.There is nothing to do but look as long as you can, then stare at your lap awhile, then look some more.
We were on a trip to celebrate our 9th wedding anniversary with a day hike in the canyons followed by dinner in a restaurant with a view. We’re finally starting to feel like something other than newlyweds– our shared memories cover too much territory. If I were to name this phase, I’d call it the “Got-Your- Back Phase,” like in the movies when Mr. and Mrs. Smith fend off the troops inside Costco, standing back to back, swapping knives and bullets. It’s strange to remember that, barring untimely death and unforseen circumstances, we’re only 1/6th of the way through our marriage! We’ve still got most of the way to go.

I’ve never met anyone like Dr. G. There is something about him that is essential and unchanging; when we stopped briefly on our hike to wade in the creek, he crouched unmoving over a slow pool,the late afternoon sunlight slanting across his blond hair, waiting for the tiny fish to swim into his hands. He would have done exactly the same thing as a five-year-old. He stopped to pick apples from an abandoned orchard and to watch the sunlight reflecting off the ripples of water onto the canyon walls. When something in the mix of scents triggered a faint childhood memory of mine (“I think the trunk of that tree might smell good”), he was the first to bury his nose in the bark and announce its similarity to butterscotch. He is obviously not the only person to experience the outdoors with all his senses, but the way he goes about it hints at his younger selves and gives me clues to his future ones. His uncomplicated continuity is remarkable, and one of the reasons I would go with him anywhere. It’s very nice to know that apples and creeks and ferns and pine trees and red canyons exist not two hours from where we live, and I can go there with him often.

Well, I wanted to spend my free time ordering things for $5 off of the J. Crew final sale but their website seems to be down, so I will instead regale you with tales of Phoenix.

I knew that the city was in the desert, but for some reason I was picturing it as something similar to the Sahel of West Africa– lots of dirt, the occasional low bush or scrawny tree. In fact, I was astonished to witness a rocky, dusty landscape dotted with cacti! There were saguaros, prickly pears, agave, century plants(which are actually a type of agave), and more. It was monsoon season and though there was no rain the dust was often swept up into whirling devils by the hot wind. The prickly pears had swollen purple fruits and the saguaros had hats of red flowers– they looked so dressed up! On a road trip through the Superstition wilderness we saw two mountain goats perched on a cliff face, nonchalantly working their jaws. They had long, curved horns and hide that was shiny in places, like polished leather. Imagine having your skin cured while it was still on your body. The wilderness is harsh and at first glance dull; I wanted to turn away to rest my eye on something lush and green. But I didn’t have a choice and the more I looked, the more invigorated I felt– the wildness and variety of the terrain and the flora and fauna multiplies with every glance. Every landscape must interpret its calling and this one does it with beauty and flair.
The Valley itself is less interesting; blocks of houses interspersed with blocks of strip malls, all the buildings in the same color palette and all the streets perfectly straight and spaced out. Masterminded, if you will, as the new West so often is. Convenient for getting around, certainly. It’s also about 30 miles wide and constantly expanding. You know how a lot of times people say they live in D.C., but they really mean Rosslyn or Bethesda? Or Portland when they mean Beaverton? Well, for some reason we keep ending up actually habitating in the cities themselves, and Phoenix is no exception, despite the cluster of suburbs that have grown into the core. Our new place is, Dr. G tells me, exactly 2000.5 miles from our current place in Baltimore proper. I wouldn’t say it qualifies as luxury (no ambient music or servants in evidence), but it’s nice. Here’s the text of the craigslist ad:

2br – Hillside Townhome/Mt. views/City Lights/Wood Floors

——————————————————————————–

Great 2 Bedroom Townhome, 1 1/2 baths with 2 Balconies overlooking the city.

End unit with wood floors in Living Room, Kitchen and Master Bedroom.

Backs to Shaw Butte Mountain with Hiking and Biking trails thru the Phoenix Mountain Preserve.

Community Pool, Jacuzzi, BBQ, Cable TV, All Appliances, Water, Sewer and Trash included

A few pics:

The view driving up to the townhouse:

The view from the balcony:

And here are some links that describe the mountain preserve behind, which includes petroglyphs and the ruins of a fancy restaurant, among other things.

http://phoenix.gov/PARKS/hiknogud.html

http://www.gemland.com/shawbutte.htm

http://www.ahga.org/resources/maps/ShawButte.jpg

These photos are unlikely to be interesting to you if you are not a) in them or b) a member of my family. But if you are a member of group a or b, or if you are not a member of group a or b and yet find other people’s vacations interesting, continue on. Nate gave a good summary of the trip earlier if you want to recall what we did. Sarah and Nate are the photographers of all moments captured below. Thanks, you two.

Sarah mushes. Can dogs pretend to be tired? Cuz these ones seem like they are pretending.

The rest of us tromped along behind the mushers or ran ahead to inspire the lacksadasical dogs. If you ran ahead all hardcore overachiever-like, you didn’t get to be in this picture.

Two out of three cuties at Chena Hot Springs– Nate and Betsy’s crew. They switched their snowsuits for swimsuits when it was time to hit the steamy water.

The third cutie, at home.

Me pulling a chariot containing a small child on the skiing trek in the White Mountains. You see we are up high. Soon thereafter we had to go back down low. Me, becoming increasingly aware of our rapid acceleration: “Does that contraption have any brakes?” Small child in contraption: “No it doesn’t!” Me: “Well.” Small child: (Silent).

A view.

Dr. G and Nate. I wish you could see Dr. G’s awesome poofy-knee improvised ski pant fashion a little better.

Near the cabin where we stayed.

Inside aforementioned cabin. That’s Aaron and Irene on the left, the rest you know.

Everybody rhumba! Or something!

Me, troubled by the existence of uphill climbs. Why would a good God make uphills?

Aaron and cutie #2 engage in some Extreme Baking. For this type of baking your apron must show just how extreme you are, hence the hot peppers. To take it a step further, you involve your whole body in the cooking process. If your sous-chef does not have chocolate on every inch of exposed skin, you’re not doing it right. This episode resulted in in one of a gagillion batches of homemade cookies.

Easter Sunday.

Three shadowy figures crested the hill on the trail far ahead of us. It was getting dark and most of the forest had blended into a uniform green-brown, with the exception of the dogwoods, which were bright floating white in the gloom. Deer crashed willy-nilly through the brush at our approach. The figures coming towards us on the trail were fellow people, though all we could see were silhouettes.

“Three teenage boys,” I guessed. “No, two boys and a girl.” They got a little closer. “The guy in front is stockier, I’m guessing a dad and two kids.” In a moment we heard a low, droning voice. “Definitely a dad, hear the lecturing?” He had a staff with which he seemed to be slamming on the ground for emphasis. We were almost upon them before the situation became clear.

There were three men of varying ages. The man in front with the low voice was speaking rhythmically in tongues and keeping time with his staff: Tchucka tum tum alla lala be. The man in back was singing in a high, passionate tenor: Jehovah Jireh, My Provider! The man in the middle was muttering a string of praises: Amen. Alleluia. Praise God! They waved their bibles at us and grinned, veering off into the woods, still singing.

“You were way off on that one,” said the Mister. Yep, I sure was.

In other news, I updated my spam blocker and turned comments back on.

Everybody now:

Simplest thing, there isn’t much to it, all you got to do is doodly-do it. I like the rest but the part I like best is doodly doodly doodly doodly doodly doodly DO.

I experienced A First this weekend. On Sunday morning I walked out my door, stepped onto my cross country skis, and skied through the ‘hood for awhile. That is something I’ve never done before! I’ve had skis but no snow, or snow but no skis, or snow and skis but things were already plowed by the time I got out there.

Swish, swish, swish! Even with the skis I was knee deep. It was fun to watch the ski tips break the thinnest intermittent threads in the snow surface from below, like stitches. And to watch the snow break around my knees, wooshing away on either side. The only boring part was how all the neighbors in a mile radius said exactly the same thing: “You’ve got the right idea.” Why would that exact sentence occur to everyone, regardless of age, gender, or ethnicity?

Two excellent blogs that have attracted my attention recently:

Topic Drift. I don’t know this person but her humor is off center in exactly the way I like best.

Grace Notes. Tara has a way with words.