Christmas confessions

In my own personal, when-I-was-a-kid world, Christmas was glorious.  I remember our mis-shaped, gangly Christmas trees that Dad would put up a week or so before the holiday (normal timing in those days).  It's curious why trees looked different in the 50s and 60s ..... more natural and less pruned to look like giant gum drops.  Plus all the silvery foil icicles with which we'd smother every branch and twig.  Does anyone use those icicles anymore? ...... (I tried them once, years later, but the mess got them banned along with Easter grass.)

I remember music from Handel's Messiah playing on the stereo ..... a tradition that planted the love for that masterpiece deeply into my soul.  I remember my two older brothers tromping down from their upstairs bedroom announcing how torturous it had been waiting for morning.  I remember the awe when I realized the biggest present in the room, that had appeared mysteriously during the night, had my name on it.  There was a fire in the fireplace.  Dad distributed the gifts.  I don't recall if a big dinner was the norm, but there was always good food.  (Potato chips, nuts, and ribbon candy come to mind.)  Anyway, it was everything Christmas should be.

Being the youngest and last to leave the nest, my teen years were sometimes rocky and my relationship with my stepmom was strained.  I remember one Christmas morning, when I was about 17, opening presents alone.  I have no complaints ..... I mean, I had gifts!  A lot of people don't.  But to this day, I empathize with all youngest family members.  The older kids get to have all or most of their sibs there for their whole childhood.  The youngest often doesn't.

Then came the best Christmases of all.  There is nothing as good as being the Santa and the fun of watching one's own kids on those magical mornings.  I loved everything Christmas-related when our kids were growing up.  (I tried to enhance the true 'reason for the season' and extending the family tradition of playing The Messiah music .... although .... one of my favorite parts that says, "All we, like sheep ..... all we, like sheep ..... have gone astraaaaaaay .....", our kids would sing along: "Oh WE like sheep .... Oh WE like sheep!")

We always stayed home on Christmas eve and it was my labor of love to make everything as homey and memorable as a Hallmark card.  There'd always be a fire in the wood stove, music playing, classic Christmas movies to watch, home-baked cookies, re-enactments of the nativity and other traditions .... and sitting together in the living room sharing memories of favorite Christmases past.

The one that stands out was the year when, after all the presents were opened, we pointed out one more gift tucked up high in the tree branches.  It was a metal coil .... part of something the kids had to find.  They began to search, unsure of what they were looking for ..... then the screams erupted when they discovered a new trampoline in the backyard.  We worked hard to give our kids happy memories but no doubt, their dad and I had the most fun of all.

Fast forward to now.  I don't know why, but Christmas has become difficult for me.  And try as I may, I cannot seem to remedy it.  The expectations seem unattainable.  Helpful, listening friends have suggested I simplify and I've almost simplified it right off the calendar ... leaving a pile of guilt in the wake.  I've stopped sending cards.  I hardly bake because I am like an alcoholic in a liquor store when sweets are around.  Decorating is a chore that has to be all undone in a few weeks.   Choosing gifts is stressful and whereas I used to start in September with a carefully detailed list .... I now procrastinate as long as possible.   Hence I've cut it to the bare bones.   On the list of the "Five Love Languages", gift-giving is somewhere around negative fifteen for me.

I cannot explain it.  There's no reason for it.  Especially when my life is near perfect.  Our happily married kids are having their own best Christmases as they are, or are on the threshold of, experiencing it as young parents.   My cup is full.   I have absolutely nothing to complain about.  And yet ..... there it is.  I don't like being a Scrooge ..... but the relief I feel when it's over, the last box is stored away, and there are eleven whole months till I have to face it again, is very real.

So instead of a gift or a card or a plate of cookies, may I offer one of my love languages instead?  "Words of affirmation"....  Here goes .....

I love my siblings ...... who, many years ago, all did that leaving-the-nest thing before I was ready; but are not allowed to leave the nest of mortality without me.  I've informed them of this.  It's not happening.

I love my kids.  If there was a selection process before we were all born, I was at the head of the line.  Somehow, undeserving, I won the lottery.  Their joy is my joy ..... literally.  And I love their kids.   Watching my kids become parents is akin to heaven.  I wish I was more like a story-book grandma, with sleepovers, tea parties, and full cookie jars;  nevertheless, I love them in my own awkward way.  And I love my kids' spouses.  Again .... lottery winnings.  My kids married angels.

And I love my best friend/husband/forever-partner who would move heaven and earth if possible, for me.  I could happily spend every day, Christmas or otherwise, forevermore with him.

Thank you all, dear friends and family.  You know who you are.  We love and appreciate every one of you.  The posts in this blog are my Christmas letter.  And in spite of my weirdness this time o' year ......

Have a Wonderful Christmas.

We suck at full-timing

In RV lingo, full-timing means, as you may have guessed, living 100% in a box on wheels, as opposed to dividing one's time between that and a "sticks 'n bricks" .....  more RV lingo meaning a regular house. And we suck at it.

Why?  Because if we did this right, we'd be somewhere in sunny Arizona right now along with the hoards of other full-timers who have got it figured out.  I mean, that kind of IS the point.

Instead, we sit in a parking lot, in rain/snow with a sub-freezing forecast that extends into oblivion.  The motorcycle is packed away and the motorhome is stationary until conditions thaw out in any of the surrounding mountain passes that hem us in on practically all sides.  A four-wheel-drive, this isn't.

So HOW did we get in this situation?

Because we miss our kids when we're gone, darn it.  This was our year for Thanksgiving (their inlaws get them next year) and so how could we not be here??  And this year they're all in-lawing it for Christmas which frees us up to go somewhere ...... which we would .... if not for the ice and the snowy mountain passes. ..... Plus the added luck of this being a particularly wintery December.  To quote the weatherman on the evening news, "Haven't seen it this bad since '08."

And our friends and extended family ..... they're a problem too.  Christmas parties, get-togethers, plans for motorcycle and backpacking trips, fishing trips, and other all-too-fun activities that they're not allowed to do without us .... and the must-be-there things like funerals, baptisms, weddings, surgeries, and other stuff that knocks everything else down a few notches on the priority list and keep us grounded.  By choice, mind you, but grounded all the same.  The full-timer-pros seem to be able to sever those ties and not look back.  Just head willy-nilly off to their next Florida or New Mexico or Arizona adventure with no thought of loved ones left behind.

So here we are.  Watching the forecast.  Monitoring the pass reports.  Planning our next escape in whatever time-window we can get before being pulled back for the next thing we can't bear to miss.  And weighing the possibility of -- if we DO get away -- getting stuck somewhere on the other side of the pass and not being able to get back when we want to.

But at least indoors we're warm, dry, and cozy with ample propane.  We have all the water and power we need, with another week and a half before needing to go dump the tanks ..... more RV lingo I'll leave you to figure out.

So if you ever notice our parking spot here is suddenly empty with tire tracks in the snow heading out of town ..... that means we made a break for it.  We escaped.  Off to warmer temps and sunshine!

Or .... we're on a run to the dump station a half-mile away.  Either way and in spite of it all, we're still counting our blessings in our little rain-soaked home on wheels.

Arizona, back to Utah, then home

For years, my brother, Dick, said, "Ya gotta go to Sedona," (in Arizona) knowing that we love the red rock landscape of southern Utah.  We've been to Arizona many times, but never to that portion of it.

So on this trip, we made it a point to see Sedona which lies about 30 miles south of Flagstaff.    The road connecting the two towns cuts through a breathtaking canyon with a few switchback turns. Fortunately, Dick warned us about it before we headed down in our motorhome.

"Take the freeway south and cut over to Cottonwood", he said.  So we did.

We discovered Dead Horse Ranch State Park which sits on the north edge of Cottonwood, on a slope over looking the town.  This, of all the campgrounds we visited, was our favorite.  One must remember that this is not western Oregon.  This is desert.  The terrain may not appeal to everyone.  But the sites were spacious, the view was vast, and the price was good.

Cottonwood is one of several small towns in the area, and of no particular interest in and of itself.  But it had the essentials and was a convenient base.  The first night there we were treated to a lively thunder storm.  Hello Arizona.

We rode our motorcycle back up the next day to see Sedona.

http://www.outsideadventureguide.com

Wow.  We continued north through Oak Creek Canyon which we had avoided in our motorhome.

More Wow.

Then back to Sedona which has a hearty array of shops and restaurants.  The town itself isn't all that unusual.  It's the countryside wrapped around it that puts on the show.

Note:  If you are easily swayed into impulse purchases of touristy stuff you don't need, just use a motorcycle for transportation.  Then you are physically unable to buy that gorgeous but ridiculously expensive rug that YOU KNOW would eliminate all sadness if you could gaze upon it in your living room forevermore.

We rode through the streets and neighborhoods.  Sorry these pictures are not the products of high-end camera equipment, skill, and careful composure ...... just me with my phone, holding onto the back of a bike, with shadows in all the wrong places.

(Thanks, Dick, for pushing us to go there.)

The next day, on the advice of a fellow camper, we decided to visit the nearby town of Jerome.

"It's right over there", he said, as he pointed to a small clump of lights on the side of a mountain in the distance.  (Notice the small community in the center of the picture, half-way up the mountain.  Cottonwoods sits below.)

Jerome came to be in the late 1800s, built next to a copper mine, and accessed by a narrow, winding mountain road.  It was once known as the "wickedest town in the west", likely due to its unfortunate, yet colorful history of brothels and saloons.  Now its streets zig-zag up the hill through a quirky hodgepodge of shops and cafes.  This semi-ghost town is a must-see if you ever get this way.

In it's 100+ years history, all the buildings in Jerome have burned or slid down the hill once or twice.  At one time there was a 200 room hotel, considered to be the largest in the state.  It too had the sad fate of burning to the ground, but was never rebuilt.

We spent the next two nights on the shores of Lake Powell which gave Husband ideas of a future house-boat vacation.   It's sad to see the low water level of this very unusual lake.

http://www.gundemiyorumla.com/group/lake-powell/

While there, we did motorcycle loop down through the town of Kanab where we had lunch.

A bit of personal history:

It was the summer of my ninth year, 1964.  My mother died several months earlier and my dad, my two brothers, and I were on a road trip down to Los Angeles and back up to Glenwood, UT.  My sister was spending the summer between college semesters in LA with our aunt who was house-sitting for Rose Marie Reid, a successful swimsuit designer. I said house-sitting, but it was more like mansion-sitting.  Our few days there made an impression on me, hence I never forgot the name of its owner.  I never met Ms. Reid, and it wasn't until just very recently, I learned of her fame.  We visited Disneyland, Marine Land, and Knotts Berry Farm, before heading north.  (My only memory of that leg of the trip was going through Bakersfield in 112 degrees with no AC.)

My point in telling this story is that we (plus a pet guinnea pig I somehow acquired along the way) spent a night at Perry's Lodge, a motel in Kanab, UT.  Kanab is a small town and in the 40s, 50s, and 60s was often the hub of movie makers because the landscape, with the canyons and mountains, made the perfect backdrop for westerns.  And for years when in Kanab, Perry's Lodge was the place to stay.  

After that hot car ride, we were glad to hit the swimming pool at the motel.  My dad was an avid swimmer.  He taught all his kids to swim, except me, the youngest.  Not that he didn't try to teach me.  I just never got it.  But he figured he'd give it another go.  T'was at the edge of this pool I remember standing, with my toes curled over the rim, arms stretched up over my head, knees bent, and hands clamped, thinking that any minute, I would somehow transform into an actual swimmer and dive in head first.

My dad urged, coaxed, and patiently waited ..... I stood for what seemed like an hour in that crouched position.  But it never happened.  I never did the dive.  I probably pulled off a few impressive belly-flops in the process, but to this day, I do not dive into water.  I hardly even swim, in spite of several attempts at lessons.  And THAT (with a lot of unnecessary details tossed in) is what I remember every time I drive through Kanab.

Notice the irony?  (The rules must have changed since then.)

We drove to St. George, UT.  T'was there we did four awesome things:
1.  Reconnected with some dear cousins whom we think need to move back to Oregon.
2.  Spent a few hours in this beautiful, historic building.

3.  Rode the bike up through Zion National Park.
4.  Went to Costco to do some serious shopping.  (This was the first real city in which we had spent time in weeks and I had been in withdrawal.)

Zion is my favorite national park.  The pictures I took are (again) ... from my phone, from the back of the bike, and with the same bothersome shadows.  This canyon is beyond words and the pictures don't even come near the experience.  We've driven through it in a (different) motorhome with our kids, in our convertible BMW, in a van with friends, in a bus with family, and now on a motorcycle.  We've hiked in it and waded through its river into slot canyons.  I think all that's left is to see it on a bicycle, or from a helicopter ... or perhaps in a hot air balloon?

Needing to expedite our return home, we began the trek north.  We had an appointment in Bend, OR, in a couple of days and other family matters looming.   On the last day of our trip we got in a quick visit to a particular piece of newly purchased property in a community called Crooked River Ranch where we were welcomed home by a stunning sunset.

Check out our future view when someday we again put down roots.

It's not Zion, but it's ours.