Surprise!

Our family refers to it as “the Talent,” and we should know. All of us have some manifestation of it or another. When I saw my nephew, as a toddler, start to cry when his sister, out of sight in a different part of a playground, fell, I knew we had yet another generation. This is hardly rare. Most people have a sixth sense of some sort and degree. Our family just acknowledges it, encourages it, and uses it.

My sister’s particular Talent is one I found exceptionally annoying as a child. She can touch a package or envelope and know what’s in it (and sometimes its history) with unerring accuracy. A natural morning person, she’d be up and downstairs on Christmas morning, handling every gift she had not already probed. Next, she’d be bouncing on my bed (her usual method of awakening her grumpy, night-person sibling) telling me, not just what Santa brought, but every item in every wrapped package. I can’t emphasize how much I hated this. I am no actor, but had to fool my parents into thinking I was surprised and delighted by every gift.

Since she moved to the West Coast forty years ago, some mystery has returned to my life and the holidays in particular; although I now embrace a Pagan path, and celebrate the Solstice rather than Christmas, with feasting, gifts, and  libations. This Solstice Eve, however, I found surprises are not always gifts. My housemate walked down for the mail, as is her custom. I was just beginning to think she’d been gone longer than usual when I heard the door open and the sound of labored breathing. I leapt from my chair.

“Take a look at this shoulder, will you?” she said, her voice strained. One glance and I knew it was dislocated. My particular Talent told me more: this was not an injury I wanted to touch, or subject to my driving over Potter County roads. I followed the ambulance to the emergency room, and a few hours later X-rays showed a break at the ball-joint. Surprise! A Solstice gift neither one of us will ever forget.

Over a week has passed, and she has had surgery to reinforce the bone and joint and put it back in place. This is hardly the end; It will be weeks until she can actually use the arm muscles to lift its own weight, months until she can get back to her usual activities. In the emergency room we both voiced the thought that we’d thought our roles would be reversed: me taking the fall, her being caregiver. But here I am, Rabbit the Caregiver.

This is not a natural role for me. I tend to be impatient with helplessness, and my maternal instincts are limited to kittens. However, Maggi really tries to be independent and does everything a one-handed woman (on pain meds, too) can do. The big challenge for me has been mental organization and memory. I’m the one that has to remember appointments, care instructions, medications, and so on. I’ve been taking care of the sick cat, too, and the other five kitties. In addition, it has fallen to me to do the lion’s share of communicating her progress to family and friends. From the first call to 911, to the most recent appointment with the orthopedist, I’ve had to supply her insurance information, personal information, and even what vitamins she takes and in what strengths. This has exercised my poor, Swiss-cheese memory, yielding results I’ve found impressive; and required mental organization and cognition outside the limits of my testing that qualified me for Disability. My long-dormant paramedic training has supplied knowledge and even technical terms, which astonished me. Best of all, my slippery-slope of deepening chronic depression has ended. Nothing like having to take care of someone else, exercising abilities long-unused, and proving equal to the challenge, to nurture self-esteem and derail the depression train.

It’s probably selfish of me to be happy about the benefits I’m gaining from this while my friend is in pain and frustrated by her own helplessness. Perhaps it’s just me being a control freak and gloating over my current (temporary!) domination of the household. But I prefer to think that there is nothing bad that happens that one cannot derive some good from. In this case, a lesson: I’m more capable, and have fewer limitations, than I thought. A surprise Solstice gift, indeed.

A Wee Nip o' Holiday Cheer

Sometimes it seems I have only two default moods:  “Grouchy” and “Serene.”  When I’m expected to be “Jolly” for the holidays it’s usually a difficult job.  Perhaps it’s a sign of aging that it grows harder to get in the holiday spirit every year.  Maybe I just expect too much of myself.  After all, eleven months of the year my two moods are adequate;  why change just because it’s December?

When the holidays approach, my mind is filled with a singular combination of anticipation and dread;  combined with the stress of cooking, cleaning, decorating, spending money I don’t really have on gifts, food, and cards, and the numerous social and family functions that are too often duty rather than fun.  What will the family find to quarrel about this time?  Which friend am I going to unwittingly insult and have to beg forgiveness from this year?  Who is going to send me a card out of the blue, that I just dropped from my card list?

It seems the only thing that gets me through those social occasions where I’m expected to be “Jolly” is alcohol.  Normally a single glass of wine once or twice a month satisfies my taste buds, but not during the holidays.

It doesn’t do to be “Grouchy” at parties, one must appear to be having fun.  This requires at least one, usually two glasses of wine.  Unfortunately the quality of this wine is so variable that it occasionally kicks my Mood-O-Meter back to “Grouchy” and I’m forced to have another glass to numb my taste buds enough to restore my party mood.

Wine is often also served with the fancy dinners so common this time of year.  I normally prefer water with meals, but if wine is offered I feel obliged to pretend I’m cultured and accept a glass.  Not to mention, these feasts are social occasions and my usual silent surliness at meals is not appropriate.  I’m going to be expected to make pleasant, polite conversation.  Pour that wine, and quick!

There are occasions for toasts, such as the obligatory bubbly on New Year’s Eve.  For me, it had better be a good champagne and not sickening-sweet sparkling wines or (heaven forbid) non-alcoholic substitutes.

Cold evenings after a day of visiting or shopping (and shredded nerves from same) require a sleep-aid and restorative in the form of a nice liqueur such as Bailey’s or Amaretto.  Come to think of it, fortifying myself before such activities with a cup of coffee with either of these additions or a shot of Jameson’s added is needed to generate some holiday spirit and motivate me to actually visit or shop with a smile on my face.

What can I say about eggnog?  That it is necessary for the true holiday experience?  That this is the only time of year one can get it, so enjoy it while it’s here?  That it is not worth the calories unless enhanced by a large dollop of Kahlua or Amaretto?  Then it’s ambrosia… and the only thing that gets me through Christmas Eve and Day without committing homicide or suicide.

For those who accuse me of alcoholism, let me just ask this:  Would you rather have me drinking or “Grouchy?”  Please answer, the former.  I’m running out of places to hide the bodies.

The First Snow

Last night I looked at the weather radar last thing before going to sleep and the blue smudge of a snow storm was right over the house. I did not, as my Inner Child demanded, spring out of bed into my slippers and rush outdoors. There's plenty of time to see snow this year. I may be sick and tired of snow before winter ends. But probably not.

I didn't expect the little blue smudge to amount to anything, but when I got up this morning and looked out the window, there was snow on the ground in patches and big wet flakes falling! Any thought a mature adult from Pennsylvania would have had was totally absent from my head. It was the first snow of the year! As usual, I rushed from window to window wearing an uncharacteristic smile. The first snow! How lovely! And it only happens once a year. (Never mind that it's happened to me sixty times before.)

I love the first snowfall. I love almost ALL snowfalls. You think it's because I'm retired and have nowhere pressing to drive? Wrong. Even when I was working and my employer accepted no excuse (not even roads closed by the police) for lateness or absence, I loved snow. Back then, living within feet of a busy highway, the silence at night would wake me up. Winter. No trucks passing. A long, long silence. It could only mean one thing. I'd get up, pad in sock-feet to the front window, and look out across three lanes of unmarked white. I'd rejoice. I knew that, in the morning, I'd be shovelling, then scraping off the windshield and leaving an hour early for a white-knuckle commute. But I'd rejoice anyway, in the silence and the beauty.

The first snow, or any snow. It elevates my spirit, delights my Inner Child, draws me outside to experience it with all my senses. I snow-shoe in it, catch flakes on my tongue, and make the very occasional snow angel. I even enjoy shovelling, as long as some vehicle has not packed it down into a sheet of ice. I could live in a clime without snow, but I wouldn't want to. An important bit of magic would be missing from my life.

Especially that once-a-year miracle of transformation:  The first snow!

My Date with Mr. Brown

       October weather is frequently raw and wet.  For a week I’d been expecting the rain to change to snow overnight, or whenever the cold front driving it pushed through.  The forecasters were, no doubt, tearing their hair out in frustration at trying to predict the whims of the season.  Me, I wanted to fish.  I knew the brook trout were out there, spawning, ready to attack any gaudy dry fly that dared to invade their territories.  At last, an afternoon lull occurred between one cold front and the next.  No rain.  More than a little windy, cold and cloudy, but good enough for a Rabbit in the terminal stages of cabin fever.

As I drove, I noticed the autumn colors had been muted.  Most of the leaves had been stripped from the trees by the storms, and the mountains showed a subtle shading of gold-bronze, with occasional accents of dark green, bright orange, or red.  The birch thickets I passed showed signs of rebellion:  Within thirty yards, there would be trees with gold leaves, trees still green, and trees stripped bare.  Birches are the rugged individualists of the forest.

My original plan had been to take my annual pilgrimage to Young Woman’s Creek, but the briefness of my good-weather window convinced me that fishing closer to home would be wiser.  Kettle Creek had been fishing well three weeks earlier, so I headed there.  I was decked out in my “autumn camouflage,” an orange technical shirt, which was also a wise choice in an area bow-hunters frequent.  My choice of weapon?  My split-bamboo Ron Bennett “Pine Creek Special.”  As I was gearing up, I was annoyed by a swarm of those Korean Ladybugs.  They landed on me, tried crawling into my waders, and generally made themselves a nuisance, which is what they do best.  I found myself wondering if even the fish would eat the musk-reeking, disgusting things.  But I tied on my usual attractor dry fly and hiked in.

The water was almost a foot higher than it was three weeks earlier, and running faster, but was clear.  Once in awhile the sun would break through the wrack of fast-moving clouds, and the breeze was a bit stronger than I like for accurate, delicate casting.  I got quite a few bumps from small fish down in the deep cut below the big hole, but got distracted by a…  I can only describe it as a “flushing” sound under the drooping branch over the deep hole.

       “Holy cow!”  I exclaimed.  “Either something heavy fell out of that tree, or there’s a BIG fish in there!”  I wondered which as I worked my way up the seam, wading with the slow silence needed to approach wild trout.  What could possibly have fallen out of that tree and made that sound?  Or was it a fist-sized meteor I’d failed to spot?  When my fly finally landed in the “money slot,” another fish came up and nosed it, but this was not a small one.  This bump had been slow, a lot of water bulging in advance of the fish’s snout.  I cautiously waded closer to get a better float, and this time I saw the inspection-and-refusal.  “Holy cow” had been a fairly accurate description.  What I saw was at least fifteen inches, at a conservative guess.

Inspection-and-refusal.  Hmm.  Best tactics, change to an imitator.  I went for the reliable X-Caddis, although upon reflection I should have used a dark pattern rather than a light one.  A dozen casts with this drew no interest.  Then I thought about those Ladybugs.  I chose a Foam Beetle with peacock-colored tinsel chenille belly.  No interest from the big guy, but an unexpected rise in the current below the hole resulted in a six-inch wild brown who jumped and fought nicely for his size.  I was pleased;  A wild brown of any size makes me happy.

I looked up at the hole and considered my options.  I was “dueling,” concentrating on one fish rather than “looking for the stupid ones.”  There was a lot more very good water to cover, and it seemed to me the clouds had thickened overhead.  I could drop a Copper John or Green Weenie off a bushy dry fly for this big fellow, or weight a Wooly Bugger, and probably hook him.  Not land him, as I don’t carry a net when fishing the local brook-trout waters, and know well my ineptitude landing large trout by hand.  I could move on.  Or I could try one last dry fly:  The reliable Yellow Humpy had gotten his attention, perhaps the Royal Wulff, another attractor, might do better.  This is the fly Donna Trexler describes as “the hot fudge sundae of dry flies,” as it looks nothing like a trout meal, but oh, my, it looks luscious!  With great care, I made sure the knot was perfect, and served the delectable dessert fly right in the big trout’s alley.  Nothing.  A few more fruitless floats with this fly and the wind grabbed it on the back-cast, tangling it in a tall shrub.

Carefully I waded back and freed it, knowing that my attempts for this big fellow were over, at least for today.  I walked quietly up the bank and got a good clear look at him, not spooked but obviously not feeding anymore, unconcerned in the bottom of the hole.  A brown trout, undoubtedly wild, at least as big as my first estimate.  

       “You have defeated me,”  I told him formally, saluting him with my rod as a fencer would with a saber.  I’d be back, probably not until spring, with a net and my best flies.  But meanwhile, I wished him health, luck, and many progeny.

Be there in May, Mr. Brown.  It’s a date.

The Golden Month

October is the golden month. Not just in terms of the leaves’ colors; It is the season of abundance. Farm stands bulge with pumpkins, apples, and squash. Harvesting machines clatter across fields of bronze or tan. Squirrels race around industriously stashing their winter supplies, as do human beings. The wild animals I see are fat from enjoying the bounteous season. Some use this bounty for energetic pursuits such as migrating to warmer climes. Summer birds are gone, and raptors and waterfowl are leaving. The former make solitary flights, finding energy-saving updrafts to glide their way south. The latter travel in noisy V’s, pointing the way to the equator, which the sun’s path crossed just a short time ago.

For many, the energy reserves of the season of abundance are used for mating. Deer lose their native caution as their hormones rise, boldly and blindly stepping onto roadways… or into range of a bow-hunter. Trout, flaunting autumn’s leaf colors, compete for spawning opportunities. Even the largest and wariest will attack a gaudy fly that invades his territory.

Orange-yellow school busses signify another sort of competition and growth. Other colors blossom as school sports teams vie with a passion adults rarely match. Yet which of us can forget shouting and waving pennons or pom-poms, our cheeks rosy with cold, watching our high school Homecoming Game?

But, under it all, October is the last great work of a dying year. The changing leaves remind me of the changes I see when I look in the mirror. Soon my hair will whiten, like the ground when snow falls. It’s somehow fitting that October ends with Halloween, a holiday of celebration and defiance of endings; of Death itself. What better way to face our fear of mortality than to laugh, to tape up paper skeletons and display cardboard coffins as a symbol of both facing that fear and transcending it? Children come in disguise, begging the bounty that we have stashed against the hungry, cold season; and we freely give it, knowing even beneath the often-scary masks these beggars are our progeny, our future.

“Winter is coming.” But it’s not here yet. Sink your teeth into a fresh Cortland apple, perfectly complimented with cheddar cheese and ginger snaps. Giggle your way through a corn maze, or a “haunted house.” Watch an aggressive brook trout smack your dry fly, then admire it’s muscular, colorful beauty before releasing it. Or just drive some country roads and be awed by each new autumn vista. It’s October, my favorite month of the year!

Thoughts on Marcellus Development

August in Potter County is fair and festival month.  I often grumble about this, as multiple events are scheduled for the same weekends, then I must choose between them and miss one;  Yet there are so many weekends in May, June, September, and July that could have events scheduled to draw in the tourists.  The thinking is,  “If tourists are around to go to the County Fair (for instance), our event will have more people available in the area already to attend it.”  As sensible as this sounds on the surface, I can’t help but question the soundness of the logic.

Of all the weekend festivals I’ve been to this year, only Galeton’s famous Independence Day fireworks drew a good crowd.  Three music festivals of exceptional quality drew no more people for the dynamite closing acts than one would see in a popular night club Downstate.  Coudersport’s Maple Festival and the Herb Festival were lightly attended, and Galeton’s Fall Fest and Kettle Creek Valley Outdoor Show have gotten smaller each year, to the break-even point.  All these are (or were) popular events offering exceptional value for little or no entrance fee, but, despite all efforts to publicize them widely and in a more modern format, are just not drawing the attention they deserve.

This is just the most visible sign of our deteriorating tourist industry.  Small businesses all over the region have closed their doors, “For Sale” signs sprouting like weeds.  Individual entrepreneurs (such as myself, as a fly fishing guide) have been forced out of business, sometimes even forced to seek a full-time job to make ends meet, usually putting an end to our ability to do our tourist-related trade.  Overhead for fishing guides is high (licensing requirements alone add up to over $1200 annually) and presumably the same is true for others.  If we don’t get a certain amount of business, even doing it for the love of it becomes impossible.

A lot of this can be chalked up to Marcellus Shale exploitation, which has done a lot to ruin the esthetics, community budgets, and environment of the region and created little in the way of jobs and/or income.  Environmentalists faced with this five years ago went into the dialogue with the energy companies and legislators prepared to compromise, but met with no similar attitude.  No extraction tax was proposed to supplement communities suddenly forced to provide more services, nor to fund the environmental watchdog agencies to assure the gas extraction was done where and in such a way as to damage critical environment as little as possible, and absolutely no funding for cleaning up the inevitable mess the drillers will (and are already) leaving was provided for.  The sustainable existing tourist industry was sacrificed for the profit of the few and (already) wealthy, at the expense of local residents dependant on it.  Negative publicity aimed at generating concern about the reckless exploitation served to keep tourists away, and those that did visit the area could not avoid seeing unsightly drill sites, staging areas, and pipeline construction, not to mention ‘sharing’ the roads with convoys of construction trucks and tankers driven by people with no concept of safety on narrow mountain roads, especially in winter.  Many long-time camp owners are selling out, too.

The history of the region shows this resource rape has occurred repeatedly:  Oil, lumber and coal were exploited, each time leaving the ecology of the area a bit more damaged, each time leaving a mess that taxpayers and volunteers have had to work on and pay for, decades of repair that is not over even now and will never get things back to their pristine state.  No one seems to learn this lesson.  At least, no one in a position to do anything to prevent its recurrence.  Sacrificing esthetic values on the altar of profit is the American Way.

It’s sad.  Blogging is about how one feels about things, and this has saddened, infuriated, discouraged, and frustrated me.  Seeing a disaster coming, writing and speaking and working to prevent it, then having the whole juggernaut roll over me, has flattened my soul.  This place I love, being ruined.  Other people that love it, forced to ‘sell out’ to the energy companies or starve.  This knowledge was hammered home by attending these wonderful tourist events and seeing how few people were there to appreciate them.  Come to the Pennsylvania Wilds soon, to enjoy the State’s last (marginally) unspoiled outdoor wonderland, while they still exist!

Close Encounters of the Rodent Kind

 Maggi went to New Jersey last week for her high school class reunion, and I received a cryptic e-mail hours after her latest projected arrival date: "Here safe. Tell you about the car later." Uh-oh. This was like the old joke about the Jewish mother's telegram home: "Start worrying. Second telegram follows." The explanation, in a second e-mail sent a day of fretting later, said she'd had to stop at an auto parts store and replace the air filter. The whole story came out nearly a week later.

The car had been gasping, sometimes stalling.  It turns out this was due to a clogged air filter, and that came about because of rodent occupation of the filter compartment. Among other things, the predictable dessicated nuts and nesting materials, there was an unexpected treasure in that air filter: the critter had discovered Maggi's stash of Hershey's kisses in the car, unwrapped them, and transferred them to its hiding place. Steal her chocolate? "This means war!" At least that explains why the air filter needed to be replaced, not just cleaned:  the chocolate had melted in the heat of the engine compartment, coating the filter. Car engines are not designed to run with chocolate-dipped air filters. This is why the engine was gasping: It was running on too rich an air mixture.

She was not the only one with rodent encounters. Three mornings ago I staggered out of the bedroom, and when I got to the part of my morning routine where I opened the pantry to get tea, a mouse which had been perched atop the pantry door was flung off, hitting me in the head, scrabbling for purchase on my face, then dropping to the floor and scampering under the breakfront. THAT woke me up, to be sure. And anyone else within a quarter-mile, who might have heard the scream. I am not the sort of female who shrieks at the sight of mice, but when one lays an aerial ambush before I am barely awake, I think I can be excused my quite audible reaction.

I have been lecturing the cats on their household responsibilities ever since.

Cache On Demand

I’m not as bad as I used to be obsessing about each new hobby to the exclusion of all else, then dropping it in favor of a new one, and seldom returning to it. Part of this improvement is financial; But I like to think a lot of it is accumulated wisdom. I’m more discerning about what activities I try, and do indeed just try them at first, not diving into them head-first and accumulating every possible bit of related equipment. Of course, most of my new hobby ventures involve the outdoors.

It took me awhile to get into geocaching. It’s not expensive to start doing it, but GPS technology was brand-new to me. The bottom-of-the-line Garmin I bought with a gift card proved I have no intuition at all about this particular branch of geek-ness. Eight months after getting it, I attended a learn-to-geocache event at the local State Park, had some of the odder features of the devices demonstrated, found all eleven waypoints on the Park geo-trail, and was hooked.

Within the month I had printed out (very ineptly, as the pages ended up in random order and orientation) the User Manual for my device from Garmin’s website, had successfully gotten it to locate satellites, waymarked my house, and found my way back there from my own mailbox a quarter-mile away. I was ready to find my very first cache! The first caching website I tried (through the Garmin site) proved pretty much moribund. I scrounged through my business card file for the card I’d gotten from the cachers at a local outdoor show, which guided me to geocaching.com (duh!).  I created my own free account and found a half-dozen caches were hidden within ten miles of my house! The site proved user-friendly even to this user, I downloaded the lot into my GPS, and was off!

I didn’t know enough to read, let alone print or save, the cache descriptions. My method was simple: Drive to a parking spot within 500 feet or so of a cache, walk to it following the arrow, then use my eyes. Wonder of wonders, the first one I tried, I found. I went 2 for 4 that day, learning rapidly. I found I still need maps; From a distance of 5 miles the roads that seem to go in the right direction don’t necessarily do so. I discovered that the cache may not be where my GPS says “0 feet.” I learned to bring my own writing utensil. I logged my first finds on my Geocaching.com account. I looked up my two failures and discovered how useful the cache descriptions are.

That was a little over six months ago, and I have now logged 170 finds in 9 states. I’ve attended three local events, including CITO, launched my first trackables, and earned my first geocoins. I’m now contemplating the adventure of hiding my first cache.

What is the allure of this activity? For one thing, it combines technology with the outdoors, satisfying my “nerd gene” while allowing me to hike, learn, and observe nature. The fact that I dry-fly fish for trout proves that I love solving puzzles, and this also allows me to do that. I’ve incidentally found a lot more fishing spots by finding caches, as well as many places that are just neat in their own right. The inner child’s fascination with treasure-hunting and a love of knowing secrets and keeping them is really in play (in all senses of the word) here. It tickles me to know that thousands of people drive past these spots daily, unaware of their existence, but I do… along with the select members of my “secret society.” My lifelong love of Sherlock Holmes comes out in my keenness on the hunt. I park the car, and am out like a hound on the scent, eyes glued to the GPS arrow, totally focused on the find. (And almost always forgetting the cardinal rule: Waypoint the car so you don’t get lost coming back.) Once at “ground zero,” I cast about, looking high and low, using every sense, trying to think like the cache hider did, persistent as that hound intoxicated with the strong scent of a covey of quail. The “aha” moment is great, but it’s the process leading up to it I savor. I have recently begun seeking out caches that are more challenging, not just mentally, but physically as well, requiring more hiking over rougher terrain. I truly love puzzle caches, that must be solved by logic and instinct.

Most of all, and I hate to admit this, I am endlessly fascinated by how easy it is to find unknown objects hidden by complete strangers in unfamiliar territory, when I am unable to find my iPod that I put down just a few minutes earlier somewhere in my house. Every day I wander from room to room several times daily searching for whatever item I put down, or, worse yet, in a “safe place,” meaning the nearest black hole. Often I forget what I was searching for in the process and wander further trying to stimulate the memory of why I am wandering. The fact that I can and do find geocaches comforts me when I’m frustrated at my daily absent-mindedness. Perhaps someday I’ll figure out how to overcome my memory deficiency using GPS technology. Meantime, I’ll just keep reassuring myself that I can find other peoples’ stuff, ineptly but surely.

Eleven Months That Changed My Life

I was really motivated to lose weight when my doctor wanted to put me back on Metformin in addition to 56 units of insulin a day. Firstly, I knew that would not work, and secondly, Metformin and I don't get along. A big problem with oral medication for diabetes is that the user can't self-adjust the dosage of it in response to the morning glucose tests like one can with insulin. Another is that a person HAS to eat a certain amount within 20 minutes of taking the medication to reduce the side-effects. So I figured the problem was the carbohydrate-counting diet they had me on. I abandoned carbohydrate-counting totally and substituted Weight Watchers.

Since I hate meetings, hype, wasting gas, and weighing myself in front of other people, I opted to do WW online. I'm self-disciplined enough that it has worked. As a diabetic, I was already used to weighing, measuring, and estimating portion sizes when I wasn't home to weigh and measure. I tested my glucose every morning without fail and adjusted my insulin appropriately if I had 3 successive readings out of range. At first, I was very careful to make my before-bed snack some fruit with carbs. Later, as I came to know and trust the program, I stopped thinking about carbs at all.

Here are the results: The FIRST WEEK my morning glucose readings went into or below the normal range. I have had NO high readings in the eleven months since. My November blood work had my HemoA1C at 6.06 (Normal range is 5 to 7) and my most recent lab work had ALL blood factors in the normal range. My doctor said my Body Mass Index is now 27.1 and the AMA recently revised the BMI target for older women to be 26 to 28, so I am a normal weight for the first time in almost 40 years! I've gradually reduced my insulin to 12 units daily. 48 pounds lost. 7 inches lost off my butt and down from a dress size somewhere in Women's 20's to size 14 plus-or-minus depending on the cut. Best of all, the reduced stress on my knees and feet means I can be active (which helps with diabetes and weight loss), fishing longer, hiking again, and with more stamina doing yard work. I spent a full day in April geocaching with a bunch of youngsters in rough terrain and kept up with them except for two short breaks. A half-mile uphill hike to a scenic overlook last week was a piece of cake. Of course, I am no longer 24 years old as I was last time I weighed less than 150 pounds, so there are still some limitations, but not many! I sleep better and my flexibility has also improved.

Yes, Weight Watchers costs almost $20 a month. I save that just in portion sizes. I'd reduced them to half when I retired from my very-physical job, but WW cut that in half again. And I have to eat veggies, which I dislike unless well-disguised with butter or sauces. Worst of all, I am a fat addict. There are hundreds of products for folks with sweet tooths, but nothing replaces the rich taste of real butter, real cream in coffee, gourmet cheese, or full-monte bacon. I've compromised with low- or no-fat alternatives where I can, but some things I refuse to budge on and just enjoy them very sparingly. The whole purpose was for me to learn a new eating discipline that I could live with, essentially, the rest of my life. I have not gone from 'meals' to 'grazing' as many on WW do, nor have I wasted time in pointless exercise when I can get my activity in by fishing, hiking, snow-shoeing, hunting, and working outside or in my wood shop. I've fit the program into my life, not vice-versa.

I feel so much better about my self-image that I have gotten my hair cut stylishly perky, and enjoy buying new clothes to replace the wardrobe which is now outrageously baggy and often downright shabby. This is the real hidden expense of WW. Now that I am within sneezing distance of my goal weight I can buy quality clothing and expect it to fit for some time to come.

I could not have started and continued this program when I was working, because of stress and the unreasonable demands my former employer put on my time. Because of my job, I spent 12 years as an out-of-control diabetic dependent on expensive medication and with ever-increasing peripheral damage to my body and psyche. It literally almost killed me. I was displaying all the symptoms of a diabetic on the last six months of the downhill slope when my doctor gave me the advice that kept me alive and led to my current state of health. I still live with some of those diabetes-related conditions today, the worst being impaired memory and cognitive functions. Fighting these impediments plus my chronic depression has made sticking to WW a big job, but persistence has paid off. I am less than 2 pounds from my goal weight.

Lots of people in Weight Watchers report a phenomenon when nearing their goal weight of leveling out, or see-sawing up and down in weight, for weeks at a time. My goal is 8 to 10 pounds above the highest weight listed on the “If you are X feet tall and Y years of age, you should weigh between these two weights” chart. I did this specifically to avoid the leveling problem, and because I feel an older woman looks worse too thin than a little plump, not to mention being more vulnerable with fewer reserves. (Recent studies have vindicated my belief.) Yet I ‘plateaued’ for three weeks, after see-sawing for four weeks. I now look upon weight loss as something like fly casting. Yes, I know, everything in my life gets compared to something in fly-fishing eventually, But, see if you can’t see the truth in this.

A common mistake beginner casters make, and even more experienced ones sometimes, is altering the stroke on the ‘business’ cast. They get a good rhythm going making perfect false casts, but that final one, meant to place the fly perfectly on the water, they feel deserves or requires some extra oomph. Things fall apart, although any one of those prior false casts would have been perfect if laid on the water. The discipline to just do exactly the same perfect movement when the chips are down is what separates the good caster from the novice. As I near my goal weight, I find myself impatient to get there quickly. I anticipate the supposed pleasures of the Maintenance Diet, even though I’m aware that I started this to learn new eating habits meant to last a lifetime. Sometimes I eat as if I’m already on Maintenance, taking an extra slice of bread, a little more meat, or reaching for the ‘good’ salad dressing instead of the despicable vinaigrette. Sometimes I revert to being a WW Nazi and count out my finger carrots or go out and work up a gratuitous sweat. No wonder I see-saw up and down in weight. If I just kept doing the things that worked so well for the last 11 months, the results would be as consistently good as they have been up until now. That behavior was the false-casting; now, with the goal so close I can smell it, the pressure is on and it’s time for the business cast. Which should be no different from the previous ones… See my point?

I joined Weight Watchers to stabilize my blood glucose and learn a new eating discipline. The actual weight loss has been a bonus. I must remember this, take the pressure off myself, and let these last two pounds flow off just like the previous 48. The rewards, in increased ability to enjoy the things I love and decreased pain, are worth it.

Writing Diary #2: Repetition

Most of my published writings are about fly-fishing.  I edit a fly-fishing quarterly and have a regular column.  The problem is, there are a limited number of things a person can say about fishing.  “I used this fly.  I went here.  I caught X number of this species of fish.”  Essentially that boils down most of the articles in most of the fly-fishing magazines.  I seldom read any of the mass-market fly fishing magazines anymore, and that’s one of the reasons.

Fly-fishing has a rich literature going back seven centuries.  Obviously the where-to-go, what-to-use writings are of little or no relevance anymore, but there are classics that endure.  At their root, they invariably deal with emotions:  Why do we fly fish?  How does doing so make us feel?  What do we learn from it that enriches our lives?  For fly-fishing is not an efficient way to fish, it’s a way to nourish the soul.  Process-oriented, not goal-oriented, to use current vernacular.  This is what I usually address when I write about fly-fishing:  The artistry of the experience.

Even so, there is a certain amount of repetition.  Trout are beautiful.  The insects they eat live very brief lives, which inevitably makes me reflect on the cycles of life, death, and beyond.  The pace of time while fishing is different than the normal human bustle.  The act of predation forges a different type of connection with the natural world than mere observation, yet fly-fishing allows the fish to be returned to its life unharmed.  These are themes I’ve explored many times, because they are the essence of how and why I fish, and how I think and feel while doing so.  I sometimes feel I have little more to say about fly-fishing, and I suppose that’s true.

Yet every experiential piece I write expresses these feelings a little differently, and I find new words to describe them.  A reader who is unmoved by one piece may find poetry in another that resonates with their own fly-fishing experiences, expresses their inner feelings in a way they’ve been unable to articulate.  Every once in a great while a reader e-mails me with a hesitant, usually awkwardly-written,  “Yeah.  That’s it.”  Or greets me at some fishing function with a hug and a reference to one article or another.  This is why I keep writing, for these moments when true communication occurs.

When teaching, it pays to present the same information from several different approaches, since students often grasp one and not the others.  It’s the same with writing.  I may not have much to say, but by saying it differently several times, I increase my chances of reaching every reader.  Those who love words for their own sake, the sheer loveliness of the English language and the way words combine to exquisite ends, will not mind the repetition.  They’ll see the brush strokes, not the subject matter, and appreciate it (or not) on its merits.  And there will be more instances of  “Yeah.  That’s it.”

Empty Nest Syndrome

It seems just yesterday we saw the first fuzzy head peek above the edge of the phoebe nest in the porch eaves.  That first day the poor parents were frantic, making trip after trip with toothsome morsels for the hatchlings.  There were two wobbling heads raised on spindly necks that we could see.  The normal brood in this nest over the years has been four.  Had the untimely late snowy cold killed the rest of the eggs?  I swore I could hear three distinct voices in the rhythmic feeble cheeps that heralded the arrival of each snack.  Several anxious days later, we sighed with relief when the third head, beak straining upward in entreaty, became visible alongside the others.  We had three grand-chicks!

Mr. and Mrs. Phoebe looked weary and frazzled.  How they found so many food items in such short forays I can’t imagine.  Grubs, insects, and the favorite caterpillars were dropped into straining, strident hatchling maws.  Larger morsels were deftly severed in two.  Or was the phoebe parent just clever enough to silence two of the three shrill begging voices in one trip?  Almost daily, the voices became louder and deeper as the chicks grew and strengthened.

We were so proud.  Wasn’t it clever of Mr. Phoebe to choose a nest site eight vertical feet from the ground, sheltered by a roof, upheld by a sturdy rafter, immune to wind, predator, and rain?  Wasn’t Mrs. Phoebe smart to realize that our cats, who watched the nest with unswerving gaze, were no threat to her brood?  The cats themselves seemed as solicitous as they were fascinated, rattling their warning when squirrels came near the nest, which the phoebes took as a signal to scold or dive upon the intruding rodents.

Sometime during the week past I saw the phoebe couple engaging in aerial acrobatics, something they certainly had no energy for during their previous single-minded, continuous food deliveries from dawn until dusk.  Maggi reported that yesterday she’d seen them dancing in flight, Mr. Phoebe singing his squeaky-toy song.  And I noticed today, it is now hard to distinguish the chicks from their parents by size.  The young ones are still somewhat fuzzy, but the nest is obviously crowded to capacity.  When neither parent is around to see, the chicks are fanning their wings, trying out muscles that will soon be used in flight:  The sudden, unpredictable explosion of birds from the nest, only the parents (raising their second brood) to return.  Of course, when a parent is sighted returning to the nest with food, the chicks hunker down, voices raised in supplication, eyes round with innocence and mouths open for food.  But their feed-the-helpless-chick act will not fool anyone much longer.

Where does the time go?  Even the parent birds, who surely wished that dusk would come sooner during those first busy feeding days, must sense their young will soon leave them, and feel some regret at that notion.  For us, the felines and humans that have watched with the fond non-responsibility of godparents, the empty nest syndrome will be acute.  When the sweet peeping of begging chicks is replaced by silence;  when no fuzzy, ugly-cute heads crane above the nest edge to look at us;  we will feel the loss.  How fleeting is childhood!  How quickly our young grow up and leave!

This forces us to think of the swiftness of time, and reflect on how we should appreciate each irreplaceable day.  There will never be another one just like it.

Rest In Peace, Lilah - Sept. 1992 to May 2013

My friend Maggi wrote this eulogy for her cat Lilah who passed on this morning:

“How do I speak of the passing of a friend of twenty years? Someone who has been with me through the best and worst times in my life.  Who says cats are aloof?! 

Twenty plus years ago we got a call from the maintenance department at the school where I worked. "Are you guys still looking for a kitten? We have one of the ferals who tried to come in from the cold. Want to come and take a look?" One look was all it took. These huge golden eyes staring up at us from a box carefully lined with soft towels. The expression said, "What now?" Of course we took the kitten.

She started out as Leo. She pulled the 'amazing kitten sex-change on the way to the vet' trick for her first visit.  He picked her up and said "what a pretty little girl!" Oops. Quick name change. Lilah she has been ever since.

Her second or third visit, where we finally got a sunny day and he held her up in the light and said "Oh! That's grey hair! She's not dirty!" 

She would go upstairs with my husband when he went to bed.  I'd come in, find him taking up 3/4 of a king size bed, and Lilah fully occupying the remaining quarter.  On my pillow, of course.

Her sadness and confusion when her lifetime playmate, Spuds, passed. I was handling that well until she came into the living room with one of their favorite toys in her mouth, calling for him.

The look she gave me when I trapped the bird that had gotten into the bedroom and released it outside. "That was MINE! You promised!" Sorry, Baby. I forgot I had promised that you could have one if it got in.  She wanted to go out and hunt like Spuds did so much. But she was an indoor cat.  

Sitting on top of the TV, hanging over the screen trying very hard to catch the bows from the violin section of the orchestra. 

Her patience when friends came over with infants and small children.  She always seemed to know that these were 'human kittens' and deserved tolerance with their antics.

Earning the nickname 'Lilah the Hutt' because she had short legs and thick fur.  She looked overweight when she wasn't.  

Trying to tell her it wasn't her fault when my husband decided he didn't want to be married anymore and didn't want either of us.  

She went from being an 'only cat' to a multi-cat household. Introducing her to Gram, where we were going to live.  Gram was no problem. Cat person. Gram's Fuzzy? He took it well.  Lilah had her space in our room, he had the rest of the house. And she was allowed to come out and visit with 'his' person. Other cats in that household? Gram's kitten, Willow, Sue's Scrapper, and Liath (who was and is her OWN cat). In ten years there, we lost Fuzzy, Gram, Scrapper and Willow.  Lilah took losing them all much better than losing Spuds and Daddy. I think by that time she had grown up enough to know these things happen. 

Does Derek know he has been her substitute 'Daddy'? He'd take such good care of her when I had to leave town overnight.  

A couple of years ago I was adopted by a kitten, Cassie. Who then proceeded to adopt Lilah as well. 

Our last move was to Pennsylvania. Into another cat-friendly household. I had brought Cassie for visits, since she adopted me from here.  I was apprehensive about bringing Lilah into another household at her age.  I needn't have worried.  

She made the trip well.  She has always travelled well, and this was to be her last long trip.  She looked at our bedroom and delightedly scrambled under the headboard of the waterbed. She remembered it was her favorite hidy-hole from when she was a kitten!  

Watching the other cats trying to figure out Lilah's ranking in their system.  Lilah gained a new nickname:  The Dowager Empress.  She was totally above and outside their power games.  She outranked ALL of them due to advanced age and wisdom. They have always given her the respect of her new title.

She acquired a 'brush slave' in Rabbit. Who would come in every day (usually twice) and give Lilah a nice brushing.  We're always amazed at the amount of fur from one little cat.  But she's been that way all along. I remember one vet looking for a place to give her a shot and commenting on her thick fur.

Cassie generously gave Lilah her pet fish. That had started as a joke a few years before, but , as usual, turned around so I'm not sure who the joke was on. A couple of months ago Señor Kissyfish passed on.  Lilah was upset.  We tried to tell her she was a good pet mom and fish don't stay with us long. She was happier when we got her a new fish.  Now who gets him?

Who's going to remind me to feed Freddie?”

I suppose I must mention Maggi is my housemate and Lilah lived here for the past year.  I knew her ‘way back when she was just a mischievous kitten, though.  Bright in my memory was staying overnight at Maggi’s one New Year’s Eve.  My bed was the sofa, with the holiday tree at my feet, the sequential lights a beautiful sight, especially with my glasses off.  In my zoned-out state, with everything blurry, I imagined one ornament near the top of the tree was a face.  Then it moved, and I realized it was a face… a furry one, with whiskers.  How Lilah had gotten so high without disturbing or shaking anything I can’t imagine.  She also had a special love for dancing lights, which I discovered the next morning when I opened the microwave to heat coffee.  The sunlight from the east-facing windows hit the microwave door, creating reflections that skidded across the floor, pursued by Lilah.  She continued this fascination life-long, chasing reflections of sunlight or flashlight beams with equal enthusiasm.

Lilah was a striking color hard to describe.  There were elements of yellow, orange, tan, and even pink there, with a pattern that was subtle and looked solid from a distance.  Except for her tail, which was striped.

When Jack left Maggi, I found it hard to comprehend the mind-set of someone who would leave a faithful wife of over 20 years, mother of his two sons;  however, I found it impossible to understand how he could leave the cat who loved him so, his ‘little girl,’ to whom he’d seemed so devoted.  Because of this, she and Maggi had a special bond.  I understood this on a deep level, because of my old cat Isis who had once belonged to my ex;  we had been ‘loved and abandoned by the same man,’ as I put it.

They moved in with me about a year ago, and I discovered that Lilah was as close to a saint as a soul in a fur body can be.  She bore her age with dignity and no complaint, despite arthritis and other age-related problems.  She was never cross, never bit, and was always so glad for human companionship.  She loved to be petted, brushed, scratched, kissed, and played with;  But seemed equally happy to just be in the same room with one of us, especially enjoying music or the sound of the human voice.  She had a purr that could be heard across the room, too.

I discovered early on that she adored to be brushed, and took over that aspect of her care gladly.  She’d rub the brush with her face, stand up and beg for more when I paused, and never tired of it.  Twice daily, always accompanied by treats and affection, yet every brushing filled the brush with loose fur.  “My little fur factory,”  I would joke.  But we both looked forward to the routine.

It always amazed me that this arthritic old cat still loved to play.  Whether with that flashlight beam, one of her toy mice and worms, or her favorite plump bags dusted with catnip, she eagerly pounced and rolled or batted at them.

When Maggi had to go on overnight trips, I added a second part to our routine.  I’d go in and sit with her for an hour in the evening, often reading aloud to her.  She appreciated this.  Not much of a lap sitter, she’d lie on the bed listening.  Since she was elderly, her appetite was not as good as it should have been, so I started feeding her a little canned food in addition to her kibble, and it became a daily routine.  Maggi added “catmilk”, which she had for breakfast.  Meals were my responsibility, and you may be sure Lilah would come find me and stare at me reproachfully if I was late with them.

She had a quality of capturing peoples’ hearts.  I could not pass through the bedroom where she spent most of her time without stopping for a caress, a kiss on her forehead, or at least a cheerful greeting.  Yes, she required a lot of attention as she aged, but I did not grudge a moment of it.  There are now big empty spaces in my life that were once filled by the love of a bright little cat-shaped saint.

Mindless Tedium

I just got in from mowing the lawn.  I’m always amazed how a repetitive task stimulates the mind.  Reflections on philosophy, snatches of poetry, and of course criticisms on the state of my yard and future plans for it tumble through my brain.  I often choose to do just such a task when I’m troubled.  It gives me a respite from the mental treadmill of pointless worry.  Sometimes this gives me a solution, but usually it just gives me comfort.  (Just!)  In the long run, I’ve found taking a mental break often ‘breaks’ the pattern and, later, I can come up with an answer, even if it’s merely acceptance of a situation as it is.

I found myself remembering a scene from the old 70’s TV series Kung Fu.  The good one, not the later spin-offs that were little more than palettes for testosterone poisoning.  It went thusly:

“The young Kwai Chang Caine spent his first year in the monastery wielding a broom.  In autumn, he swept leaves from the Temple and stairways, in the summer dust from paths and walkways, in winter snow, in spring fallen petals.  He had exhibited great patience when the candidates were chosen, but even greater desire.  At last his desire to learn overcame his patience.  Spotting Master Kan in the garden, he laid aside his broom and bowed low, waiting to be acknowledged.  At last the Master spoke.

‘Have you a question for me, Kwai Chang?’

Caine blurted out, his voice tormented by his inner conflict,  ‘Master!  When shall I learn?’

‘What is it you have been doing since you arrived within these walls?’

‘I have done nothing but sweep!’

‘And are you a good sweeper?’

Caine paused, and his face lost its agony, became thoughtful.  After a long time, he replied,  ‘Yes.  Yes, I believe I am.’

‘Now you are truly beginning to learn.’”

I think this illustrates the usefulness of ‘mindless tedium.’

Queen of Denial

After having cut off a foot or more of hair last week, I expected to lose a pound or so. Instead, when I weighed in Monday, I found I'd gained two pounds. This obviously was not because of the wine I drank nightly at the fly fishing festival over the weekend. There must be some other cause. Hmm...

Well, there are two things I can think of that are lighter than air: Helium (He) and Hydrogen (H). Mix hydrogen with air using the following formula:

                                                 Hydrogen (H) + Air = Hair

Eureka! Hair must be lighter than air, so by removing hair I lost its natural buoyancy!

Perhaps if I'd come up with this insight in college chemistry I'd have passed the course the first time through.  Lots of professors give credit for theories that make them laugh uncontrollably. They have to.

That's my story and I'm stickin' to it!

Almost Cut My Hair

Well, actually, I did cut my hair.  But Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young have been singing in my head ever since and I feel vaguely like I've betrayed my generation.  I've had long hair since... well, I was not born with it, but  my oldest memories include my hair being long.  Much of my life it's been down to my waist, genuine Hippie chick hair.  Why did I decide to cut it?  Too many reasons to list.  How much did I have it cut?  About as short as it can go and still look like woman's hair.

But, does it feel weird!  The first problem was my tweed hacking jacket being so scratchy against my neck driving home from the salon.  And I had the sensation that the ends of the hair were touching the collar whenever I turned my head.  All day long I've had the feeling that my hair was still there, bound up in a French twist like I used to wear it for work, but when I put my hand back to make sure the bun is still secure, it's not there.  But I feel it there distinctly.  There is that tight sensation at the temples saying the hair is pulled back into that bun, but it's not.  There is the feeling of weight at the back of my head, but it's an illusion.  I think this is all psychological, my mind putting a familiar cause on a totally new experience.

I do know for sure that I can't wait to wash it tomorrow morning (which will be another whole new experience) and hopefully get my...  ahem!  ...head straight about there being no bun, and no hair, where it thinks they are.

Writing Diary: "Twilight"

I woke up at 5:30 this morning with a compulsion to write.  I didn't have anything in mind, but sat down in front of the word processor anyway.  What came out was my column for the fly-fishing club quarterly, the column for which this blog is named.  Somehow, pieces that start on a blank slate end up flowing easily, and the results are lovelier, than articles that are planned.  Four hours later, the finished product impressed even me.  Check this excerpt out:

"In the mountains, twilight ends swiftly.  There’s a short time between sunset and darkness that feels almost surreal, the air having a glow that has little to do with light.  Perhaps it’s the departing soul of day illuminating the world with a final blessing."

Ain't it bootiful?

I always compare winter to an Ansel Adams landscape:  A simple statement in black, white, and shades of grey, powerfully conveying the basic nature of my mountain wilderness.  Spring comes to the mountains in three stages:  The ‘looking desperately for hopeful signs’ stage comes first and lasts the longest.

This year, spring is late coming.  Stage two did not start until May.  In the valleys first, of course, then slowly and reluctantly spreading up in elevation, competing with snow that was still falling nightly.  On my property, a single grumpy crocus put forth a short-lived bloom.  Squirrels, running out of their winter-stored foods, chewed my other sprouting bulbs down to the roots, except for the daffodils and the Dreaded Day Lilies.  Those daffodils, naturalized throughout my pine lot, were originally 150 in number.  Less than a third of those sprouted, and, of those, a quarter grudgingly produced a single blossom.  Meanwhile, the trees were showing first a faint haze of red or yellow-green, then small delicate curled leaves unfolding.

Suddenly, yesterday, Stage 3 arrived.  My first reaction, as always, was a feeling of claustrophobia.  The leaves had abruptly gotten large and numerous enough that the broad vistas I enjoy in winter were blocked.  The second was that I had been dropped into a Peter Max painting, a psychedelic study in green.  Eyes starved for colour over the winter were overwhelmed by the intensity, as well as the many varying shades, of green.  Emotionally, it’s always a shock and a delight, coming almost overnight, as it seems, after long weeks of yearning.

That’s spring in the Northwoods:  Life imitating art, as I pass abruptly from the Ansel Adams season to the Peter Max season.  I relive the giddy joy of my hippie years, as I spin, arms out, revelling in psychedelic colour.

Bilingual Signs... No Comprendo

Welcome to the north woods... a space subtly shifted out of the 'normal' dimension where the rest of America resides.  We're so far out of the mainstream, we're over the mountain in a valley formed by a different watershed than the mainstream.

I saw a perfect example of this Saturday when I went into Coudersport, our county seat, for the Potter/Tioga area Maple Festival.  The Crittendon Hotel in the middle of town is one of the oldest, best known taverns in the county, their bar the hang-out for the most important people in the area.  Saturday there was a sign in the window:  "Saturday, May 4th!  Cinco de Mayo!"

Nobody in Coudersport knew why I found this so funny.  For people living anywhere else, all I can say is:  When you understand this sign, you will understand what life in the Pennsylvania Wilds is like.

Reflections on Cookies

You should treasure the unusual people in your life.  After all, without the nuts, a Toll House Cookie would be merely a chocolate chip cookie.

Come to think of it, chocolate chip cookies are also wonderful.  Never mind!

Life In The Slow Lane?

It’s ‘life in the slow lane’ here in the Pennsylvania Wilds for a retired woman.  At least, that’s the theory.  In practice, I have the Watershed Association, Trout Unlimited, and other conservation organizations for which I volunteer; meetings and fundraisers for the local library, and other worthy causes; and purely social activities like the local herb guild, music festivals, outdoor shows, and community fairs.  That’s part of the pleasure of being here, although I must be ever-wary of my tendency to over-commit.

The important thing is balance, between active fun, social fun, and contemplative fun.  Yes, retirement is fun.  Sometimes I have to remind myself of this very firmly, especially when I’m running from one ‘enjoyable’ activity to the next with no time in between to remember to actually enjoy them.  Like many people my age, I sometimes find myself wondering how I freed up 40 hours a week for a job.

Not that I see myself as ‘retired.’  I worked 42 years in a field I never liked, most of it for an employer I despised (the feeling was mutual), and now I am concentrating on my second career doing exactly what I’d wanted to do in the first place:  writing.

What would my life had been like if I had followed the advice of my heart, rather than that of  my high school guidance counselor?  If a person 16 or 17 years of age would listen to advice from an old fogey, I’d tell them to ignore the authorities (also old fogies) and make a career out of whatever they do well and are happiest doing.  The odds of success, in the traditional sense, may be long, and money scarce; but there are different definitions of success, and money is not the biggest or best part of those definitions.  I chose the security of working for someone else, but what I should have realized that ‘employ’ means ‘to use.’

But that is all behind me now.  Every day I recover a little more self-esteem, a bit more balance, after my years of being used.  I spend my days at creative tasks, in beautiful surroundings, which is my idea of heaven.  I am free: I choose my daily activities (or lack thereof), the way I dress, and the thoughts I think.  I write, I fly-fish, I observe the natural world, and have finally achieved what I think of as success.  Perhaps not strangely, a more usual type of success is beginning to happen to me.  I find this ironic, annoying, gratifying, or amusing, depending on my mood and how this ‘success’ manifests.

This is life in the Pennsylvania Wilds, the north woods.  A place outside of time, where only seasons change, and stories of brook trout caught and turkey gobblers called in take precedence over national or global news.  A ‘destination,’ my destination, about which I often say:  “Vacation?  Why should I go on vacation when I’m already here?”