NaBloWriMo Day 15

Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Describe a favorite place. Focus on how that place affects your sense of taste, touch, sight, sound, or smell.

I have lots of favorite places, but I'll pick what's (probably) my most favorite-ist of them all.

The name of the place is Flagstaff Hill, and it's just outside the town I grew up in. It's a part of the Oregon Trail, and before the Interpretive Center was built, was something that unless a person knew where (or even what) it was, s/he could drive right on past and never know it; if one knew where it was, one could jump the fence and walk on the trail, provided one knew enough to be able to identify any and all snakes and didn't mind breaking the rules that said "don't jump the fence." I've only been to the Interpretive Center once, but I like to remember the place as it was, because that's what sticks in my memory, which is what I'll describe.

But first, a little background. So, the Oregon Trail is something that is taught in grade school as part of the whole Western Migration process. But there's just something about actually LIVING in a place that was part of that, and being able to take it for granted. It wasn't until much later in my life, after I'd moved away from it, that I really understood what that trail meant.

For some, it was a new beginning. For others, a chance for a better life.
I don't know if I'dve had the fortitude to endure that journey. I do know it was not easy terrain to endure, especially not the stretch I lived in. The travelers would have just gotten through Hells Canyon (aptly named) on the Idaho/Oregon border, to come up to Flagstaff Hill, just to see ONE. MORE. FREAKING. MOUNTAIN. RANGE. I've wondered how many wives looked at their husbands and said, "We came ALL THIS WAY FOR THIS!??!?!?!?" Although Oregon was known as the land of Milk & Honey, it must have been so disheartening to see all that sagebrush and more mountains. Once they got across that last mountain range (the Blue Mountains) though, the landscape changes from the harshness of the high desert to a more temperate place.

For me, though, that stark, unforgiving harshness is beautiful.

It's a barren place, yet not. There is beauty in the sagebrush that covers the ground, and it's so quiet that I can hear the wind blowing and my heart beating. The view is beyond incredible. Down the hill are the well-worn wagon wheel ruts, and in the distance is the valley proper, protected on the other side by the Blue Mountains. I feel peaceful here, and can appreciate the way my thoughts slow down. The tangy smell of the sagebrush fills the air, and I wish that I didn't ever have to leave, because this place, this magical place, is more home to me than anywhere else I've ever been. The absolute stillness of the place is both mesmerizing and unsettling, but yet inviting and a perfect foil to the busy life that awaits just down the hill.

Picture from: City Data

365 Photos Day 279

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As I was sitting outside today, enjoying the lovely, gorgeous autumn day, and ruminating on the situation at work, I saw this in our yard.

Yes, we could use to do a little bit of "Weed and Feed" yet this month, but that's not the point.

This made me think of a picture I took while studying abroad in Scotland:

I took this on the hike back DOWN Arthur's Seat (I tell you what, that is one BIG hill). It seemed to sum up Scotland quite well (it is one of the national symbols), with it's tenacity and rugged beauty.

I thought about how Scotland seemed to be a prime takeover target of England for many many many years, and although England did win in the end, the Scots put up one heckofa fight along the way. Even now, it seems like Scotland still maintains a separate identity; it's as if although they are part of Great Britain proper, somehow Scotland has been able to preserve some of it's own identity (which hasn't always been the case, I know. I was a history major with my concentration in that part of the world). Part of, yet separate.

This all reminded me that although our library is now under a bigger library, and indeed we did fight the good fight, it is possible to maintain our own identity and ways of doing things. And maybe someday, we too can get some Home Rule going and be able to do our own thing again.

Hopefully it doesn't take over 200 years, though.

365 Photos Day 201

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When my friends travel abroad, the only thing I ask is that they (at some point) send me a postcard. Why? Because I don't want/need any more stuff, and besides, postcards are very cool.

These are 5 that were sent from various parts of Europe. I finally found a frame that I liked that would go in the spot I wanted to put the postcards (in the upstairs TV room).

I spent a couple of hours putting it all together tonight, making sure things looked straight. I may or may not have used a level on some of them, as them being even just a jot off would irritate me.

So, that's one project done. Too bad it wasn't on my current project list.

365 Photos Day 69

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I spent most of the afternoon with the Kid. We went to the Minneapolis Institute of Arts so she could look at the Asian art for a project she's doing for her East Asian history class in school.

The Asian art is her absolute favorite. Always has been since she was a wee tot. I was never sure what about it fascinated her so much then, but today she said she likes how simple it seems on the surface, but how complex some of it is when given a second or third look.

Today she was particularly taken with the Korean art, which admittedly, I'd never paid much attention to before. I was amazed at the pottery glazes, and really liked the lighter blue celadon. I wonder if the museum would let me borrow a piece to take to Home Depot to get color matched...

365 Photos Day 55

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The Kid is probably going to get to study abroad next spring for a class (World War II: Victory in Europe). She'll be going to Munich (with a side visit to Dachau), Paris (with visits to Notre Dame Cathedral, the Louvre, & Versailles), Bastogne (visiting the Museum of the Battle of the Bulge), Normandy (visiting the Caen Memorial, Normandy beaches, & the American Cemetery), taking the ferry to Portsmouth (and going to the D-Day Museum) & London (visiting the Imperial War Museum, the Cabinet War Rooms, and Churchill Museum) for 10 days.

When my Mom died in 2007, I rolled all her mutual funds over into an account for the Kid's future education. This definitely qualifies, and there's more than enough to cover the trip and spending money and all that. And I know Mom would approve of her granddaughter doing an (extremely) abbreviated version of the Grand Tour.

She wants me to go with her (which I could), but I don't know. On the one hand...LONDON!!! and PARIS!!!, but on the other...I'm not a World War II kind of historian. That'd be Steve. He'd love that stuff. Me, I'd be happier skipping all that. Either way, there's going to be some learning of basic French going on (because I can do that. German...no.) And some planning for her free nights of what she should go see.

But, LONDON!!!! and PARIS!!!!

Laissez les Bons Temps Rouler

Photo from: GOOD, New Orleans Issue Submissions:

Six-Word Motto for New Orleans

You know how some places call to you, even if you’ve never been there (at least not in this lifetime)? New Orleans is one of those places for me. To be specific, pre-Katrina New Orleans.

Now, don’t get me wrong—I’m not romanticizing the place, nor do I think that New Orleans is only about Mardi Gras, loud raucous streets, good times, and tourists. I know that there were, and are, plenty of problems that are glossed over, and there’s a side of the place that not many get to see.

Even so, there’s just something about the place that whispered to my soul, and sometimes I wish I would have listened and heeded the call.

In the spring of 2005, as I was graduating with my Associates degree, I was contemplating where to transfer for my Baccalaureate degree, and ultimately my Masters degree. I was being recruited by a few Minnesota colleges and universities, and being offered some pretty sweet deals. There were a couple of out-of-state universities who were sending me information too, which was a surprise, considering I'd never contacted them. One out-of-state place was Tulane University, which offered me what amounted to almost a complete full ride. The catch, of course, was that we’d have to relocate to New Orleans.

At the time, Steve was working from home, so he could have gone anywhere, just so long as there was an internet connection and phone lines. We seriously discussed moving later in the summer so that I could go to Tulane, but in the end decided against it because it would be too far from his family, with whom he is very close.

It turned out to be a very good choice.

Today marks the 5-year anniversary of Hurricane Katrina making landfall in Louisiana, Mississippi, and all along the Gulf Coast. If we had moved, we would have been there for about 2 weeks prior to that. Judging by how not-smoothly our previous moves have been, everything would still have been in chaos, and mostly in boxes. We would have lost most everything. I look at the news footage from then and my heart just aches. I can’t even begin to get my head around what those who rode out the storm went through. I was very alarmed at the ferocity of the storm when my family was caught in the edge of a tornado this summer, and all I had to worry about was whether or not the car was going to flip over. Compared to those who were there when the full force of Katrina hit, we got off easy.

So much was lost: lives, houses, belongings, faith, and some of that intangible essence which made New Orleans just one of those special places. Although some rebuilding has taken place with more to come, I know that it won’t ever be the same.

Yet, sometimes when I stop and listen, I can still hear her siren song calling me.