Catsup

Here's a summery so we're caught up:

Out and a Boat;









Who we'd like to thank: Jake and Nicole for letting us go with them so many times. They are the bestest of friends.


Silver Lake;



















This is Silver-Lake-Not-To-Be-Confused-With-Silver-Lake-Flat.

Hiking up here was cathartic but breath-taking, literally, since the day was languid and I had brought up more sugary drinks than water, of course. But then we jumped in the lake, meaning I pushed Warren in. We made tinfoil dinners and dearest Warren, of course, made the best of fires.

And that's all I have to say about Silver Lake.


Scott Ritter;






You may not be able to tell, because our camera really is this bad and I didn't even try to adjust the pictures, but this is Josh Ritter's tour bus. He was not in it. A taxi cab drove up eventually and he and his band got out and then went straight into the bus from there, being very sleuth-like, but we saw him anyway. Now I'm feeling like a creep. But that shouldn't surprise anyone.

The show was super, of course, but what really stood out was the guy behind us who kept cheering for "Scotty" when there wasn't actually any "Scotty" up there.

After the show, we got to talk to the wonderful young man, that Josh, and he even showed us his wedding ring, relating it to LOTR, and I knew then that we were soul mates: He, Warren, his wife Dawn, and I.

We didn't get a picture with him because at the last minute I was too shy to bother him with such a thing. But he did hug is like five times each. (He does that with everyone.)

High Uinta Backpacking;




Granddaddy Basin. Land of a good many lakes. Thanks for the tip, Benny D.



Mohawk Lake.




Warren is very proficient at firewood procurement. You need to try blending in if you're a dying tree, or even one looking the slightest bit unkempt.



He's just as good at making a fire with the stuff, which has long been advantageous. Can you imagine if we both were only good at using a fire, like myself.




This is where, on one of the days up there, I came up with the resourceful, if not brilliant, idea of making fish hooks.





We never used them. This fish just gave itself to us, as it is in nature when you become one with it.

But then we felt so bad for it that we set it free to continue rolling around on its back.




Hail Mary. Or is that not okay to say. Anyway this debacle was actually delightful to hike back in.









This is just a wonderful picture of him.




But this is also where we head out and look forward to a place called "Defa's," of which I will inform you more of later. All I will say is there are places in this world where you think certain people don't exist anymore, only to find out that they do. And that they are thriving.

The next morning we started school, so this was the end of Summer '09. Or should I say the beginning of the rest of our lives? That seems like the best cliche, so I'll definitely have to go with that.


The End.

(Of Summer '09.)



(Dedicated to myself since it is, in fact, my birthday.)

A Journey into the Soul of a Jeep

We all know the jeep is on its trillionth life, condescending to our humble needs though he has already made it in to heaven. A soul transfigured, willingly, he is assisting us in limbo until we can afford an Impreza (not the WRX, nor the hatchback, thank you, I desire what I once possessed), wherein he will go out to jeep pasture and stay there: a place where Warren outfits him to become a monster truck.

What we may not know is how touch-and-go his life really may be. I was informed of this when I went to the jeep dealer for a free replacement of the emergency brake, due to recall.

This didn't surprise us, as the brake had led to many a catastrophe previous, such as when the jeep was parked on a slope and decided to go for a jaunt down the hill and Warren had to chase it, jumping through the passenger's side and slamming his hand on the brake pedal right before it went off a cliff. That last part was more of a 1980's low budget reenactment of the incident, but I am on a budget.

So I went to the waiting room after I signed the jeep in and ah, waited. After an hour and a half of serious operations, undoubtedly, a pleasant looking man with a concerned face approached and carefully sat down next to me, folding his hands together. This was the conversation that ensued:

Storytime by TDHH

Mechanic: "So," (nodding his head) "that's your jeep."

Me: (worried) "Yes."

Mechanic: "Well," (now shaking his head, politely, of course) "we changed the emergency brake, but there are some things that concern me."

Me: (Shrugging my shoulders to look unworried) "Yeah, I don't doubt that."

Mechanic: (getting really serious now and putting his thumb and forefinger close together) "The brakes," (a heavy sigh) "are within a centimeter of going out."

Me: (nodding my head and thinking about how that explained the nightmares I'd been having)

Mechanic: "You are in grave danger."

(He really said: "They could go out at any time," but you see what I mean.)

Me: "Oh, okay."

(Pause)

Mechanic: "Well anyway there are some other things too: the headlights don't stay on."

Me: "Oh, well that's because the lever snapped off one time and we had to replace it ourselves. Of everything that does work with the new lever, that just happens to not. You just move it the other way and they stay on."

(Pause)

Mechanic: "Okay." (looking down at his list) "Well maybe that's what happened to the wiper fluid . . . "

Me: "Yes, well you see that's actually handled by a switch now."

Mechanic: "A switch?"

Me: "Yes. On the dashboard."

Mechanic: "Okay. A circumventing switch." (he says this to himself as he writes it down on the list)

Mechanic: "Anyway, most of your car's fluids are coagulated."

Me: "Really?"

Mechanic: "Yes." (he nods his head and looks smug) "Your trans fluid and your rear differential fluid and your power steering fluid . . . "

Me: "Oh yeah, it's been almost like, a year since we replaced the power steering fluid."

Mechanic: "Well, it usually takes over three years to coagulate like that."

Me: "Is that right."

Mechanic: "Yes."

(Pause)

Me: "Well, what about the engine oil?"

Mechanic: "Oh, that's actually pretty good."

(Pause)

Mechanic: (not even looking at list because he had it all memorized) "But your headlights are askew. They actually point different directions."

Me-in-thought: And the night has been so dark.

Mechanic: " . . . And your tranny case is leaking."

Me: "Ah. I already knew that one."


(Big Pause)


Mechanic/Salesman: "Well, if you ever get the chance to come back in, we'd be happy to serve you."

We stared at each other for a moment before he stood up to shake my hand.

Me: "Yeah, we'll have to get this all fixed at some point . . . " (rather nervously)

Mechanic: "Yes, well here's your copy of the list . . . "

Mechanic: ". . . we have our own."

(This is where menacing music would have come in and then a break into commercial, but unfortunately, I had to walk with this guy to the jeep and sally forth frothing at the mouth with awkward and ignominious small talk--he, knowing that I wouldn't come back in and me, knowing that yes, I wouldn't come back in.)

Warlord at least now has a free diagnostic list to pick and choose what to fix and when, the wonderful soul.

In truth, this is where I tap the brakes all the way home.


Here is a priceless picture of the jeep:





You can see it better in this one. Good dog!





And so the jeep still goes, except that the other day on the way back from the Uintas the tailpipe completely severed from the muffler.

No need to worry, we sounded just like all of our neighbors until we unfortunately fixed it.

But otherwise what I came to was that a corroded soul like the jeep's was just one indicating alchemization (don't look that up) taking place. Our little lab of a jeep by now has a heart of gold, is the thing and no less, and it will last the distance. You just have to believe in it. (From The Never Ending Story. Atrayu: just say her name. [Except I can't even remember her name. Something like Starsha or some relative galactical variant.])



(Dedicated to Jules [J-e-w-e-l-s] because I talked about alchemy after she talked about alchemy.)

Being a Member of the Reformed FleetHood Isn't So Bad. It Is, in Fact, Awe-Inspiring

Crys and I went to Fleetwood and I cannot tell you the delight when I saw the waves of mullets flapping and the bleached blond hair raging in roots . . . you know the ones. They are my people. I am absolutely contented with my life when with them because deep down I am one of them. They are the forty- and fifty-somethings who still wear high-waisted Lee jeans (tapered) but who have now reformed themselves enough to wear buttoned-down blouses (the women) and Hawaiian shirts of all things (the men) instead of cut-off-at-the-shoulders-and-at-the waist shirts (both women and men), or especially their decade earlier hippie attire which has now been long back in style. It seems the decades have taken their toll on most of this crowd, in the sense that they aren't rocking it as hard as I'm capable of appreciating.

When the band started up, we screamed with the rest of them and yes, we knew every word to every song throughout the night's play list and it was overall just quite wonderful to be there. But I'm not going to lie to you, just as their fans had succumbed to the twenty-first century, so had the band. Lindsay was making up for the lost momentum for everyone, jumping off of amps as if he'd ever done such a thing in youth, while Stevie wandered around the stage the whole time. And then off the stage, at random. I had hoped it had something to do with being a white witch that made her vanish, but there was no smoke at this concert for her to disappear into. We could catch her because of where we were sitting, was the thing.

Since Crys and I were at the edge of the visual field, we actually got to see, in a sense, more. Everything the band thought the audience couldn't see, we did, in fact. As wonderful as it was to be there, I found myself mostly looking for where Stevie had wandered off to each time, usually finding her sneaking into the back tent where the make-up artists were. And even in the middle of songs that were huge vocal parts for Stevie, we could find her wandering over to John McVie at the bass where they would talk about undoubtedly how bored she was. Ah well. She's past 60. I give her that. But what I seemed to be thrilled about, during the lolls (or lulls) when Lindsay would seem to sneak in songs from his solo career, were the times we could catch the keyboardist dancing. This, I tell you, was magical. Sure he was taking Christine's place, but what a wonderful and somehow improved doppelganger. He too, couldn't be seen by anyone else but us poor souls on the side, and that is what made it so tremendous. He was hitting up '80s moves (not the cool kind which therefor made it, of course, really cool) as if he were listening to cassette tapes alone in his un-renovated basement bedroom. Of anyone there, you could tell he was still rocking it because he was doing it for the music, man.

Otherwise, I tell you, the night was simply wonderful. I admittedly started, yes, getting tearful when Stevie talked about the story behind "Gypsy," and I loved that they decided to finally, for once, play "Storms," Crys' favorite song. I should have just anticipated the fact that everyone would indubitably age, and that that's not so bad of a thing.

As we left, along with our fellow reformed hippies, I appreciated all the more that they were at least keeping their mullets, their gold chains, their skin cancer. Some things had survived and were thriving still and Crys and I just felt fortunate and inspired to be in their midst, just getting to walk past a lady with her buttoned-down blouse knotted above her bellybutton (done at some point during the course of the night, due to remembering who she really was, deep down, because of this transformative concert). I wanted to put my arms out and say, "My people: you are my people" to whomever would believe me. As we got closer, we could see that she was yelling into a really high-tech cell phone, drunk by then, and I could only feel pride for her for how she had managed to merge the present with her wonderful, magical past. Don't we all have a past both magical and wonderful that we're constantly trying to integrate into our present, so as to not forget it? Or am I the only one who remembers Star Brite, the magical unicorn from 1984.

I think that is a lesson we can all learn from.




(Dedicated to C-Bass Sitton.)

Living It Up in the HUD

Life in the HUD is a dream come true. Ask our new neighbors. We waved to them the other day as they stepped onto their porch and they had that look on their faces of “I can’t believe I’m actually here.” I figure they just never thought they’d luck out like they did, getting to live in a place like this.

As for Warren and me, there are only pros to being a member of the HUD. We are in the midst of the old cemetery, the train tracks, and the trailer park, so we have the protection of everyone thinking there is nothing worth stealing.

Also on the upside (because that is my assertion, there is nowhere else but up), there is free cable. Not the upgraded kind, mind you, but any show you’d have time to watch in a day is on. And we have the diversity of the Spanish, religious, and animal channels, which makes me feel I am a part of an accepting community.

Unlike other places, we don’t have a mouse problem. That is because we have a cat problem.

We may have too many kids darting in front of the cars on the HUD’s communal driveway, but if I had that many kids and needed something desperate that would keep them in check, I know I would let them play in the road too.

I also don’t feel judged that my curtains are pieces of discounted fabric I purchased at Walmart and of which are only tacked to my window frames. I did not choose tin foil because I don’t like how it crinkles.

Speaking of meth houses, there aren’t any basements around here, so we gather the HUD is clean. When the cops patrol the area around four times a day, it’s mostly for the reclamation of lost bicycles. I saw one lying on the road once and no one picked it up in a whole day. That’s comforting, knowing the cops have been effective.

But living in the HUD is not for everyone. Too many people are purchasing town homes instead. Granted it’s because they can afford that kind of thing, and no offense to anyone who has one, but I’ve never understood the logic behind them. They don’t have all of their walls, nor do they have a yard like a slightly older, regular home at the same price. That’s what we’re waiting for, once our dividends increase.

In the meantime, all I know is that this place is a dream come true. And in my dreams here there is an occasional cat fight, but more often a train whistle blowing around 3:30 a.m., and sometimes a country tune carries from the radio of an old hick driving home to his trailer in his rusted and exhaust-shooting Chevy, and I find myself dreaming of old westerns where I’m out on the range shooting squirrels—which is really from childhood, and the shooters were really my brothers, but it’s a dream so I can say pretty much anything and you’d have to believe me.

And once, late at night and not a dream, Warren and I went walking in the nearby graveyard and found a skull. It was plastic, of course, but what if.



(This post dedicated to Ginny Hill.)

Here's the Thing:

Here's the thing: we don't have cute kids and we're not having grand adventures right now.

But we do have a cat.

And sometimes we go downtown. To Center Street, Provo.

(I found an old elevator there once and I'm pretty sure it's haunted; with the right equipment I could give you a better idea.)

We have new neighbors, of whom I've been looking for through our front door's peephole whenever I hear a car outside.

Today I bought shoes from Walmart and they look like they could've been from Target, or even Kohl's.

The other day we found some gummy vitamins for adults that are terrible, but we're eating them by the handful.

I've been prank calling the same person for three years now and there may be reason to believe that he still thinks it's real. The real question is why I would prank call someone for that long.

Warren is currently reading a book neither fiction nor romance, nor fantasy. And that doesn't just leave science-fiction, though heaven knows I've tried convincing him.

I'm thinking of investing in a metal detector because I spent over an hour last weekend collecting fool's gold.

If you must know, Warren is out on a run while I'm just sitting here.

What I will tell you is this: we're really happy.

And our cat plays fetch and I bet yours doesn't.

I could record it next time, if you'd like.