Month: August 2023

In the Christian tradition, the Lord’s Prayer has the phrase “and give us this day our daily bread.” Bread is symbolic of life, and I love literally having bread every day, and especially sweetened bread. If you put a cinnamon roll/donut, cookie, piece of cake, or slice of pie in front of me, I would always choose the bread item.

Bread has been referred to as the “staff of life.” It is a staple food used, needed, or enjoyed by many individuals. One of my favorite food adventures when I travel to international or domestic areas is to sample the variations of bread: Focaccia in Italy, Soda Bread in Ireland, Tortillas in Mexico, Pita in the Middle East, and Frybread in North American indigenous cultures.

My mother used to make our daily bread when I was younger. She was a great bread baker. I now deplore that my sisters and I used to beg for “boughten bread” (think Wonder Bread)—how little we knew about the delights of homemade bread. One of my mother’s hallmarks was the “coffee cakes” she gave away to family and friends during the Christmas season. Other people have holiday rituals such as tea rings or ooey gooey sweet breads, but my mom’s superpower was coffee cake.

As a young teen, I did a 4-H demonstration project on how to make bread and called the demonstration, “The Staff of Life.” I seldom make bread regularly these days even though I deplore the amount of packaging that comes with bread from the grocery store. Yeast breads, especially, take time. I do love the catharsis of kneading the bread and the surprise in how it deflates after rising only to bake with its soft roundness.

I love pizza and I think much of that has to do with the crust, the “bones” of pizza. Sandwiches are not the same to me unless they have bread on both sides.

Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra suggested that “All sorrows are less with bread.” I believe that statement especially when I convince myself that I deserve a donut or a thick slice of bread with butter and jam as a treat for hard work done.

Carbs come in different forms. I vote for bread items and am glad I am not gluten-free. The idea of breaking bread together is a simple pleasure that I am grateful to share as often as I can.

The mornings have a tinge of crispness. The plants along the trail are showing light yellows and bits of red. The Aspens are not the same bright green as they were in mid-summer. Days are noticeably shorter, especially in the morning. The season is beginning to transform in the high elevations of Colorado as summer wanes. Mixed emotions occur during this period of impending change.

Summer was my favorite season growing up mostly because it was full of long days and outdoor activities. I liked going to school, but I reveled in the freedom summer portended. I was not a fan of winter as it was hard on the farm. Making sure the animals were comfortable took an effort. Bundling up to go outdoors was time consuming.

As I age, however, I appreciate more fully the colors of fall, the pristineness of snow, and the harkening of spring wildflowers. Those observations add variety to my life. I no longer have a favorite season. The season I am in is the best. Although sometimes difficult to let go of the warmth of summer, I look forward to the evolving changes in nature that I see each day.

I am grateful to live in a landscape with stark and overlapping seasons. I appreciate the changes taking place and am also aware of the anxiety they can produce.

I love Yoko Ono’s quote: “Spring passes and one remembers one’s innocence. Summer passes and one remembers one’s exuberance. Autumn passes and one remembers one’s reverence. Winter passes and one remembers one’s perseverance.”

As I reflect about an appreciation for seasons, I think about the parallels of my life. When I was young, it was like spring. The years of my adulthood and career were reminiscent of summer with all the possibilities. I now reflect on the autumn of my life as I wind down with vagaries occurring in my energy levels and thinking. Winter will eventually come as my soul experiences the final cycle on earth. As Catherine Pulsifer reminded, “Embrace the beauty of every season, for it is in these transitions that we truly bloom.”

Last summer I answered an email question sent to romo_information@nps.gov, the park’s address for inquiries about the park. The writer wanted to know details about a particular trail near the Alpine Visitor Center. I responded with the information requested. A couple days later the same person  emailed with another park related question. In the meantime, I had hiked the first trail. I answered his second question and gave him a bit more detail about the first hike. We had a friendly and unremarkable informative interchange.

Fast forward to this summer. I was answering emails while volunteering again and got another question that was fairly easy to answer efficiently and (hopefully) effectively. A few minutes later I received a personal response on my park email from George:

I sent a quick note back expressing my condolences. George’s response was to wish me a wonderful summer season.

This interchange suggested that often what we do for people goes unnoticed or unacknowledged, and that’s OK. Sometimes, however, it makes a difference both ways. I appreciated George reaching out to me and then responding with his harkening that life is a gift. Although I know each day of living is precious, it was important for me to be reminded.

I was so scared. I tried to tell mom a few days before that I wasn’t feeling up to par. She thought I was needy and gave me lots of sweet pets. Scritch scratches soothed my soul, but they didn’t take away my belly ache.

I realized something was terribly wrong on Sunday afternoon. I hurt when I moved even a single step. I tried not to cry out from the excruciating pain, but I had to tell mom.

Estes Park has no emergency vet services at night or the weekends. Mom cancelled plans for volunteering that night and called the emergency vet in Loveland who told mom I needed to be seen as soon as possible. I was relieved but not excited about the cat carrier and speeding down the mountain. But it hurt so bad. Mom’s friend Deb came along, and her cooing sounds calmed me a tiny bit.

The vet rushed me into the exam room and began an IV with pain killers. Oh, bliss. I heard the doctors talking about a urethral obstruction that required an immediate operation. Mom was going to gulp at the cost of the procedures and my projected 72-hour hospitalization. I knew she would pay any price to get me well.

I don’t remember the next few hours. People were scurrying around. Other animals were in the metal kennels nearby and I didn’t care. When I woke from sedation, I had a catheter inserted as well as an IV fluid post. The pain was gone. I just wanted to sleep. I was continually monitored and offered a few kind pets with encouragement to eat as well as poop.

Another cat, Oscar, came in the second day with the same problem as me. We chatted about our parents and our maladies. Each hour I felt better. After 48 hours, they took out the catheter and waited for me to pee. It was a little embarrassing. I did urinate twice that night so early on the third day, the vet called mom to say I was ready to come home.

Before mom arrived, Oscar had to go back into surgery. He was unable to urinate, and I worried about him.

I was ecstatic, however, to see mom again. We were headed back up the mountain. I was feeling woozy but happy. I will be on special food the rest of my life and will need to take it easy for a few days. Thank goodness for veterinary medicine and a mom who loves me and had savings for my “cat”astrophic misadventure.

I am proud to say that I grew up in Iowa. I have been thinking about Iowa because RAGBRAI was last week, and because Estes Park residents are having their annual Iowa picnic this week.

Growing up in Iowa may not sound glamorous. I am not sure, however, what state might be considered exciting. People get the “I” states mixed up-Iowa, Illinois, Indiana, Idaho. Nevertheless, Iowa has an allure that I am proud to describe.

When I was a County 4-H Professional in Iowa in the early 1970’s, the state adopted a promotional slogan, Iowa—A Place to Grow. The 4-H staff added, 4-H–A Way to Grow. I like those ideas.

My pride relates to several ideas: RAGBRAI, food, Iowa nice, and open landscapes. I was working in Iowa when RAGBRAI started 50 years ago. It was a crazy idea designed to highlight positive perspectives about Iowa. The name did not become RAGBRAI (Register’s Annual Great Bike Ride Across Iowa) until it caught on as an annual event after the first couple years. RAGBRAI is “an epic eight-day rolling festival of bicycles, music, food, camaraderie, and community. It is the oldest, largest, and longest multi-day bicycle touring event in the world.” In 2023 it was estimated that 60,000 riders participated.

I have ridden RAGBRAI a half dozen times. I love the camaraderie of it and have introduced friends to Iowa from all over the US. I am proud that RAGBRAI showcases the hospitality and beauty of Iowa.

Part of the ambience of RAGBRAI is the food. I took food for granted growing up. Fresh fruits and vegetables abound as do carnivore feasts. Restaurants compete for who can provide the biggest tenderloin in town, although the biggest isn’t always best. Maid-rites are crumbled hamburger in a bun and are a staple of most Iowa outdoor events.

My friends have noted how nice Iowa people are. Iowans are kind but will let you know if they do not approve. It is not just the small town or rural farm connection, but a larger embodiment of the Iowa motto of respecting one another’s rights.

Finally, I love Iowa Grant Wood-like landscapes. Open spaces and places where the tall corn grows are part of my roots. I chose Colorado as my retirement state because it has both open spaces AND mountains.

I don’t return often since my parents passed. I miss Iowa and will always be thankful for my growth and education as an Iowan.