Judy Sunde Hanawalt

Things I'm Thinking About

Author: Judy Hanawalt (Page 19 of 23)

Living and writing in Berkeley gives me lots of inspiration. I am passionate about community, justice, kids and families. I love cooking and eating, laughing and sharing life with friends and family, especially over a glass of wine.

August 17, 2015 / / 1 Comment

I knew I didn’t want to look at the black, spiky forms of dead pines that dominated the view from the deck anymore. They had been green and beautiful a few years ago, but the pine beetle had destroyed many large, lush trees, reducing them to creepy, gnarled sticks scratching at the sky. I just wanted them gone, and with them, the sad memory of how many trees were killed by the pine beetle.

I felt like our beautiful mountain retreat had been ruined by the bugs; the landscape was diminished and unlikely to recover. Those trees had taken a lifetime to reach that size. One of the largest trees still had a tire swing tied to it’s branch, swaying empty in the breeze. Sitting on the deck, we knew which trees were dead, even in the dark, by the way they didn’t move in the wind. They were rigid and unresponsive to the breezes that had the living trees swaying, limbs bouncing. The last pinecones, clinging to the bare upper branches, looked like perched birds, eerie clusters of dark, still shapes.

My sister-in-law and her boyfriend came to visit for a few days, and BF was looking for a project. He may have seen this one listed on a piece of construction paper on the fridge, where I had posted some ideas for the boys to work on. He asked one of them which trees I wanted removed, and then he picked up the chainsaw and started cutting. I didn’t really notice until six trees were already down. He moved to the east side of the cabin, and took down some more large ones–now with the help of Steve and the boys–about 14 trees in all. 

They’re gone. My vision shifts to the distant wooded ridge, and down grassy draws to new stands of trees. The ridge, though it has its own share of beetle-killed trees, is still mostly green and vibrant, with more healthy trees than dead. The meadows and grassy slopes are full of wildflowers and young aspen and pine trees, some of them already 5 or 6 feet tall.

I knew what I didn’t want to see, but I hadn’t considered what I would see when the sad reminders of the plague of tree-killing insects are gone. Recovery is already happening.

Dog in a meadow

Reclaiming Our Place

August 7, 2015 / / 3 Comments

The cabin has always been easy to love. Our relationship has had a few bumps–inconveniences, really–but I’ve felt only love and devotion for the place. Last year’s busy summer kept us away; I was painfully disappointed not to spend our usual summer vacation there, and I couldn’t wait to be reunited. As we made the long trek across Highway 80, I was excited to get there, anxious to relax and enjoy being there as I always do.

Coming up the drive this time, though, it looked different to me. Hip-high weeds obscured the driveway. The cabin loomed at the top of the drive, looking less welcoming and more shabby than I remembered. The fire ring was choked in weeds and fallen trees. Aspen trees and thistles were pushing up through the deck.  We’d neglected her, leaving her two whole years alone against encroaching nature.

Once inside, I was overwhelmed. The mice had ravaged her, leaving their tell-tale excrement everywhere. The harsh winter had claimed the water heater, and mold coated the refrigerator, which had stopped working. I felt disgusted by the mess, and fearful of getting sick from the respiratory virus, hantavirus, that mice can leave behind in the dust with their filth.

For the first time, I wanted to just leave. Leave the cabin and her horrible mess. This time, she wasn’t easy to love. I didn’t know where to begin. I stood in the kitchen and cried, praying to know how to start to undo the damage of cold and mice and time.  We just had to start.

One person started vacuuming, another carefully spraying and wiping up the scattered pellets with bleach, hantavirus in the back of our minds. Others were reclaiming the deck, clearing weeds, beating down old paths, carving our space out of the wilderness again. We  rolled up mattress pads with pillows, blankets and poop into a ball and threw them away rather than trying to salvage them. Whole drawers went into trash bags. A mattress and everything that couldn’t be easily cleaned was pitched into a trailer to be hauled to the dump. We couldn’t sleep there that night; about 9, we gave up for the day and drove to a hotel in Laramie.

The initial mess was cleaned up, but the mice were still there. We captured or killed at least 14 the first week, and the number rose to 20 before they were all gone. The cabin kept letting them in, harboring those little terrorists, expecting me to clean up after them every morning, disgusting black pellets in the drawers and on the counters, exposing me to potential death. The little intruders were bold–scuttling around the living room, jumping into the dog’s food bowl, prancing through my cookware and across my counter. I wasn’t settled, I was tip-toeing around, afraid of what I’d find around the next corner, in the next drawer, nervous even in my bed that a mouse would leap up on me.

My love had cooled. 

It’s not her fault, I told myself. We shouldn’t have left her alone so long. We should have checked, set traps, been proactive to keep the mice from taking over. It’s not insurmountable, we can do better next winter. But even if it is our fault, even if we can fix it, something has changed. I’ve fallen out of step.

My love had kept me from dwelling on the problems before; now they were all I could see. I strain to see what I saw before, the reasons for my love. Some things are still good. The hot tub, the log cabin the boys are building, sitting on the deck with a beer, the way the dog runs and explores and is so happy, the friendly hummingbirds, hovering around my head when their sugar-water has run out. I remember my love, but it’s stretched and pulled and unrecognizable because of  the anger and fear that crowds out my peace of mind.

I have an idea: I need to take a walk to the meadow, that place where I first fell in love with this place. It wasn’t easy and convenient then, before electricity, the well, comfortable beds–but I could overlook the hardships because I was focusing on the beauty: the giant aspen, the bubbling brook, the wildflowers, the big, open sky. I need to get back to that vision of this place or I won’t be willing to put up with the work of keeping the cabin clean and safe and comfortable. I’ll give up and leave and go where it’s easier.

We have an investment here. I can’t just leave it behind. It’s not just me–the whole family counts this as solid ground, a place that will always be home, a place we can always come and find serenity. I don’t have to do this alone. It’s all of us. When I’m tired and discouraged, someone will come alongside and pick up the burden.

By the time we were packing up, ready to go home, I had made peace with the cabin. The mice were gone. Holes were patched. We had a plan, thanks to a pest-control expert named Gene from Laramie, to keep them out. We decided to come again in a few months to enjoy a Wyoming mountain fall weekend, to hear the bugling elk, to see the golden aspen trees, to soak in the hot tub under clear, cold skies and then to close the cabin for the season. We want to return in early spring to open it up for the summer. There won’t be mice again–or at least, the cabin will have a fighting chance against the wilderness.

It’s a tension we have to live with, the balance between maintaining and discovering, working and resting, pushing back the wild and loving the wildness and beauty of this place. 

The huge aspen in the meadow

Twists and Turns

April 23, 2015 / / 3 Comments

In the summer of 1998, we found some land for sale in southern Wyoming. It had been owned by a railroad company, and had been used for logging out ties for the railroad to use in laying new track. The little bump on the highway near there, with a quirky convenience store and a fireworks stand, was called Tie Siding.

The land had been purchased and sub-divided into 35-acre lots, and was selling cheaply, by our Colorado standards. The man at the sales trailer told us we should look at one piece of land in particular, with two little creeks meeting in its big meadow. We drove as close as we could and started hiking in, clambering over a dense mesh of fallen lodgepole pines. We had five kids with us, scampering around, excited about this wild place, and I was pregnant with our sixth.

It was a pretty little piece of land, once you got past the ugly blow-down on the front slope. Rocky cliffs, aspen stands, lush pine and spruce growing out of the abundant sage, wildflowers dancing in the wind, a little gurgling stream feeding a beaver pond. Near the pond, there was a meadow with a huge, ancient aspen tree in the middle of it. It was the biggest aspen I’ve ever seen. When we saw the meadow, we knew we loved that place. We raced back to the the sales trailer, afraid someone else might get there first and buy our land.

For the first year, we camped just off the road. We built a fire ring, put up a picnic table and and parked our pop-up trailer there permanently. After the baby joined us, the pop-up was too cramped. We decided to put a Tuff Shed garage up the hill from our camping spot and finish the inside to be a cabin.

We were up there most warm weekends from our near-by home in Fort Collins, working on making the empty shell into a comfortable space. We had a huge deck built to wrap around two sides of the cabin, overlooking a forested ridge and an aspen grove. One year, we brought in electricity and were able to put a refrigerator and oven in the kitchen. Years later, we put in a well, and years after that, we put in a septic system and retired the outhouse. A favorite improvement is a wood-fired hot tub–the perfect place to star gaze with a glass of wine.

Inside, the walls are knotty pine paneling, installed by Steve. I made the pine-cone curtains out of flannel sheets. The beds and furniture are a mix of cabin-y pine pieces and worn hand-me-downs. The floors were painted plywood for 17 years before we put in a wood floor, and the windows still leak every time it rains. It feels like home and has become an emotional center of our family life. We now talk about retiring there for part of the year someday soon.

When the four girls and I got our first tattoos together, we decided quickly and unanimously what it should be: the coordinates of the cabin. When Steve’s dad died and we discussed where to bury his ashes, the answer came easily–on the promontory near the cabin. Our dog Oliver loved spending time at the cabin, running freely and pursuing every smell and critter his heart desired, so when he died, it was the obvious choice to bury his ashes at the cabin too. Great Grandma Johnson’s ashes are there too now; she loved the idea of the cabin so much, even though she was never able to come during  her life.

We go there for at least two weeks in the summer, and dream of being able to stay longer. We’ve added a spring trip to open up for the season, and a fall trip to close it up–really just excuses to go there for two more weekends. It’s the first place we think about going when we are burdened or stressed and long for relief. Through moves to California and then within California, it has remained constant.

That place holds memories of growing up, working together and gathering for family events and reunions. It has taken on almost mythical elements–it’s home in a bigger sense, it’s the place we believe we will be our best selves, ourselves at peace. It’s the closest thing to heaven we can imagine.

It is a wonderful place, but it’s not heaven. It’s simply a piece of mountain land in Wyoming, near Laramie, a small town with a pretty good fireworks show on the 4th of July. Its meaning has grown into something bigger because of the significance we put there. It has been a safe place to hide away our desires for a true, unchanging home at the center of our family life.

With every new investment in its physical improvement or in its emotional content–and with every loved one we bury there–we are weighting it, anchoring it in our hearts. By stashing memories and dreams of family and connection into every nook and cranny of those 35 acres, we transform it into The Cabin, Our Favorite Place on Earth.

The other day, one of the kids was talking about a friend’s tradition of visiting family in Germany every summer. We were talking about how amazing that is, and the question was dropped like a little bomb: What cool thing do we do? Just go to Wyoming?

It’s a fair question. We have limited vacation days, limited resources. Going to the cabin means we aren’t going other places. We aren’t exploring fabulous camping sites, seeing all the national parks, discovering the amazing natural and cultural wonders of everywhere else, and international travel isn’t even on the horizon. We have done some exploring on the way to and from the cabin, and circumstances have taken us on trips to different places. Most of our energy, resources and time, though, goes to the cabin.

So I wonder: Was that the best thing to do? What could we have done if we weren’t always there? It’s so simple, so predictable. With so much world and so little time to see it all, why would we spend so much time looking at the same thing? Is it good to delve deeply into a such a small area, or should we have covered a broader swath of the world?

I don’t know. You make a choice and you can’t know what another choice would have been. Each family makes their their own center, their own sacred spaces. It didn’t start with a detailed, long-term plan in our family. One thing led to another, and we ended up at that place.

It was love, I think–just as irrational and potentially painful as a relationship with a person can be; the loves you follow in life are the chances you take, the investments you make because it’s the next step in the direction your heart pulls you. All those small decisions–the paths you follow, the dreams you chase–chain together to create the flow of time and life and resources that forges your family legacy. We make the decision that seems best at each crossroad, not fully knowing the ultimate destination.

This is not a warning to control every twist and turn, every small step, to ensure that you achieve a successful, perfect family experience or live the best possible life. It’s a celebration of those twists and turns. 

It’s an admission that we didn’t do so many things–but look at what we did do, and look at how much we love it. It’s a realization that as our kids form their own families, their loves may take them different places. Some of our children may continue to make the cabin the center of their family life, and others will be busy with other adventures.

We live our lives–one day, month, summer and year at a time–and the paths we follow grow into traditions that accumulate and solidify to become our shared values, a mosaic unique to each family. The destination, after all, isn’t a specific place or set of experiences, but a solid core of connection, the relationships between parents and children, brothers and sisters, husbands and wives, aunts, uncles, cousins and grandchildren, and an ever-wideneing circle of family.

On the Deck 2008

April 14, 2015 / / 1 Comment

A day at our cabin in the Boulder Ridge, near Laramie, Wyoming. Back when summertime meant all the kids were home with us.

In the early morning, it’s cool and quiet on the deck. The kids sleep late. Steve gets up first and  hikes up to the promontory overlooking the beaver pond, hoping to see some wildlife. The elk, moose and deer are active in the cover of darkness, but before the sun is up for long, the noise of our family scares them back into hiding. Soon he’s back, whistling a tune and getting the day started.

I sleep in, at least until the coffee is ready, then go out to my favorite chair, barefoot and still in my nightgown. Sometimes I sit facing the hummingbird feeder, the big pine tree, and the distant ridge, but usually I sit facing the other way, looking toward the aspen grove. This is the view I dream of, the one I call to mind when I need a serene image to dwell on–when I’m having dental work done or when I’m trying to distract an upset child from a nightmare. I don’t need a book or anything to do; I am content to sit and soak up the air and the sky and the trees. The air smells like warm pine and loamy dirt as the sun heats up the earth. The sky is clear, bright blue before the afternoon thunder clouds billow up. The aspen leaves shimmer and jump at the slightest breath of breeze, whispering ancient forest words.

It’s not long before the kids start to trickle out of the cabin, across the deck to the outhouse. Some join us on the deck with a cup of coffee, but the stillness of the morning keeps us quiet, enjoying the slow, easy start to the day. The youngest boy is impatient for breakfast and for his brother to get up, so they can start of the business of finding secret forts and having air-soft wars. Oliver, our golden retriever, is restless too, ready for the woods, the animal smells, his all-day running and exploring. There’s a vole or a mouse teasing him in the wood pile, but as soon as anyone stands up and heads for the gate, he leaves his post there and scampers down the driveway, ears perked up, stopping only to look back to make sure we are coming before bounding ahead again.

Once breakfast is eaten and cleaned up, I go back out on the deck again, this time under the umbrella’s shade. The hummingbirds are busy by mid-morning, quarreling and chasing each other in dive-bombing acrobatics that have us squealing and ducking. There’s room for four tiny birds on the feeder, but each one wants it to himself. These green-brown birds, with the iridescent red spot on their throats, migrate by the deck in the summer, stopping for some sugar water when we are here. The boys take turns standing completely still by the feeder, hands resting on the red top, until the little birds forget that they are there and land on their fingers, lighting first with wings still humming, then coming to a rest on the human perch. Sometimes a larger, metallic-gold colored hummingbird arrives and chases all the others away, a beautiful bossy bird we wish would leave our friends alone.

Late morning, it’s time for another cup of coffee, chatting, maybe thinking about a trip into town later, or starting the new book I picked out for these perfectly, gloriously open days at the cabin. There’s no clock on the deck, and I don’t wear my watch or compulsively check my phone like I do at home. The sun, forcing me to move to find fresh shade, and hunger pangs–usually the kids’–are the only time keepers. Lunch soon comes and goes, and then I may take a hike down to the meadow where the giant Aspen tree stands and the spring gurgles up through the grass.  Before long, I end up back on the deck, maybe with a beer this time.

The morning’s stillness has given way to the flurry of a big family, with conversations starting and trailing off as people come and go, playing, arguing, laughing, teasing–busy about the work of the cabin, whether that’s simply relaxing or working on a project. The afternoons often bring clouds, immense thunderheads pushing higher and higher, the tops brilliant white against the blue sky and the undersides dark, threatening rain. If it doesn’t rain hard or hail, I’ll stay out under the big umbrella and watch the storm race through. After it’s passed, the sun is back, the woods smell clean and mossy, and the deck dries quickly.

As the afternoon wanes, it’s time to think about dinner, and after that, a campfire is on the kids’ minds. They are ready for roasting marshmallows and making s’mores. By the time we’ve made and eaten our fill, sang the old favorites, and told the scary stories about Big Foot and the deadly blue mist, the last of the sunset has left the sky. The moon is rising, and the stars appear in the darkening sky. The fire has died down to embers, finally perfect for marshmallows, but we’ve had enough. The fire is still perfect, though, for staring into while talking in low voices in the moonlight.  One by one, people leave, picking  their way back over the rocks and logs to the cabin.

We go in partly because it’s chilly, and partly because the mosquitoes are on the hunt once the smokiness of the campfire dies down. For me, though, it’s mostly because it’s too dark. This part of the Rocky Mountains is home to abundant wildlife–not just moose, elk and deer, but predators like black bear, coyote and mountain lion. During the day, this doesn’t bother me. While I haven’t actually seen them, there’s Boulder Ridge lore about these hunters, and it’s not unusual to see bear or cat scat on a hike, or to hear coyotes  yipping and barking at night. When I can’t see into the layers of black-outlined trees, I’m afraid. The night is thick. I can hear the leaves rustling, their words menacing now in the wind. I imagine something right there, seeing me, haunches rocking, ready to pounce.

My stomach feels tight and jumpy, my muscles ache from clenching. I wish my insides would settle down so I could stay out on the deck, especially on moonless nights, the darkest nights, when the stars–so many, many more than I can see at home in a city night sky–pop out, and the Milky Way is a bright swoosh across the black, star-sparkling sky. I want to sit and soak it up like I do the day-time scene, but I end up scurrying into the safety of the cabin walls and light after only a few minutes, teeth chattering. Our domain, so welcoming during the day, reverts to it’s wild inhabitants at nightfall.

If it’s chilly, we light the cozy wood stove, and bring our reading and games and conversations inside until we are ready to go to bed. We are safe in our snug little home, and another day–my favorite kind of day, in a place I love–is done.

Amy and D's wedding

Wedding Time

April 7, 2015 / / 6 Comments

For three days in early March, I fell in step with time somehow, and it moved at exactly the right speed. It didn’t pass too quickly, causing me to miss out–I felt like I was seeing and hearing and enjoying everything. It didn’t crawl too slowly–I never wished for a moment to pass, I was never tempted to rush to the next thing. The days unfolded at the perfect pace.

It was my daughter’s wedding weekend.

Friday was spent picking up family and friends as they arrived at the airport and running errands to pick up suits and dresses and food. Late afternoon, we walked to a nearby park for the rehearsal, with the sun setting on the bay and shining in our eyes. Afterwards, the festive, talkative crowd made their way back to our house for the rehearsal dinner.

Mounds of food–smokehouse meats, mac and cheese, coleslaw and corn bread–greeted the group, and conversation and laughter soon filled the house and spilled out into the backyard, where there was a fire crackling in our patio fireplace. I flitted from group to group, enjoying snatches of conversation, a joke or a hug here, a few sentimental tears there, so happy to see everyone happy.

Saturday morning, the day of the wedding, I woke to the sound of a text message. It was the bride, awake early, too excited to sleep. She and her bridesmaids had spent the night at a nearby hotel where they would all get ready for the wedding together. “I wish you were here,” she said. Are there any sweeter words from your baby, all grown up now?

The day was busy with more errands; picking up fruit and Cheeseboard pizza to bring to the bridesmaids, getting make-up done, helping with dresses and hair, making sure all the last details were taken care of. I was not much help, really–I was floating through the day, relishing the moments in the knowing, generous care of family and friends. It was like a square dance, tasks being passed, traded, shared, dropped and picked up,  a quick do-si-do and swing your partner. Is there any better way to celebrate a happy event than in this cheerful collaboration?

Then it was time. We were all there: the guests in their seats on the Brazil Room patio, the groom, bridesmaids and groomsmen lined up, the  preacher at the front, the bride at the door, nearly bursting with the emotion of the day. My two sons walked me down the aisle to my seat, and I savored every detail. The late winter air felt like spring, the tree branches above us were white with fragrant blossoms, and the sun splashed over the tree-covered hills in the distance.

The musicians started to sing the processional song, an acoustic version of a family favorite, and memories of all those growing-up years came rushing into the present moment. We stood and turned to see the beaming bride on the arm of my husband, who was biting his lip to keep back the tears, so full and happy and proud. Is there anything more precious–a daddy and his little girl, this father walking his daughter to her husband with no reservations?

It felt like time slowed then, suspended in a curling wave of joy.  They walked to the arch of flowers at the front, the elements of the service unfolded, and the new Mr. and Mrs. danced down the aisle to the excited clapping and whoops of family and friends.

We moved inside the reception hall, with its tall leaded-glass windows and elegant, timbered ceiling, and found our seats at the long tables for the meal. The happy couple came sweeping into the room, all smiles and laughter, their happiness bubbling over and flowing to the guests, that wave of joy breaking and surging  in as graciousness and grand celebration. We ate, we toasted, we danced and danced and danced.

After cutting the cake and the tossing the bouquet and the garter, the bride and groom changed into traditional Nigerian wedding clothes, joining the groom’s family in their colorful, lavish attire. A Nigerian blessing song played while the couple danced and were showered with prayers and money, folded bills tucked into their pockets and headwear and thrown in the air over their heads.

Suddenly, it was time to leave, as if the clock was about to strike midnight and turn us into regular people again. The family and friends who hadn’t left yet bustled around, collecting clothes and shoes and flowers from the dressing room, grabbing gifts, leftover favors and wine from the tables and loading it all into our van. We directed tipsy revelers to safe rides home and said hasty goodbyes.

The newlyweds came to our house late morning the next day, and we lounged in the living room, snacking on bagels, fruit and quiche, drinking mimosas and pot after pot of coffee. Family and friends came and went on their way out of town. There were gifts to open, stories to tell from the day before, and pictures and videos to share. Late in the evening, we drove them to the airport to leave for their honeymoon.

The wedding weekend was over.

Several days later, regular thought patterns began to stir in my brain. I felt like I woke up from a mid-day nap, a haze slowly clearing. I need to do laundry! We’re out of everything–I need to go to the store! Planning, organizing, and thinking about the details of daily life returned, making me realize they’d been missing. I had gone about my normal weekly schedule, but I was unusually peppy and dreamy, sharing photos on my phone and telling everyone about the joyous event. I had been in a cloud of wedding giddiness, a happiness hangover.

As I began to get back to normal, I recalled feeling a similar altered awareness of time before. The way wedding time felt stretched and a little distorted reminded me of the sharply-focused, slow-motion experience of tripping and falling. Every central detail was in full color and high definition, while the background details faded away; every moment seemed packed full of moments. Scientists have theorized that this slow-motion feeling comes from the brain laying down extra sets of richer, denser memories as a result of being in a situation–usually a frightening one–that brings about strong emotions.

In this case, it wasn’t fear or danger, though, that heightened my experience and memory. It must have been the strong emotions that accompany profound family events. We added a member to our family. We saw our child become part of another family. We were surrounded by the tangible love of friends and family. At the center of it all, we witnessed the bride and groom’s obvious commitment and love for each other, free from second thoughts or doubts. It was a celebration without fear. There was only excitement at the future stretching ahead for this new family.

Is there anything more worthy of enjoying and remembering  in slow motion?

 

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