Author: KARLA_HENDERSON

“What’s your favorite hike?” I am frequently asked this question when volunteering at Rocky Mountain National Park. I have come up with a response that initially works:

“It’s the hike I’m on that day.”

People seem to chuckle at that response. However, I am often pressed a bit more. I respond with questions like, “What do you want to see (lakes, wooded trails, being on top of a mountain?” “How far do you want to go?” “How fit would you say you and your companions are?” And in the wintertime, “What kind of footwear do you have (good hiking boots, traction devices like microspikes, snowshoes)?” Sometimes I ask if they have been in the mountains for a day or two or are coming from sea level.

Although hiking is an easy activity to do, making decisions about what trails to use is not that simple if one is to have a good experience and not disrupt the ecology of the park.

I am passionate about hiking. I have the privilege of getting out into the natural world almost every day. At the least, I take a walk around Lake Estes. I differentiate between hiking and walking based on whether I am on unpaved or paved trail, respectively.

As much as I love my own hiking experiences and want others to have safe and awe-inspiring opportunities, I am becoming increasingly troubled by the degradation that is occurring on my favorite trails, which is most of them. Many outdoor spaces and parks (and especially trails) are being loved to death. The increased numbers of people visiting outdoor areas as well as the quantity of trail apps available have contributed to hiking popularity and the concomitant overuse of trails. It does not have to be a problem, however, if we all appreciated that with the right to hike comes a commitment to recreate responsibly.

Native American Chief Seattle is credited with the notion frequently expressed, “Take only photos, leave only footprints.” Some people have substituted memories for photos and I like that idea. However, I am concerned about the suggestion to leave footprints. On some of the trails in the park people have disregarded staying on the trails and have widened them by walking off trail to avoid a little mud. Getting your boots dirty is part of the experience!

I am especially angered by those people who feel it is no problem to shortcut the trails. Many of the trails in Rocky that go up steeply have been constructed purposely with switchbacks to make it easier to walk, albeit a bit longer. It breaks my heart to see people coming straight down (the trails on Deer Mountain are a classic example) leaving all kinds of footprints and impending erosion of the mountainside.

I like to wander off trail in some parts of the park. But going off-trail does not mean creating a new trail or following directly behind someone else’s footsteps. Minimum impact involves leaving as little evidence, including any footprints, as possible. Tread lightly and responsibly. It results in leaving no trace.

I do not want to deny anyone from enjoying the outdoors, but more awareness and education can occur so that with the right and privilege to hike, people will recreate responsibly on trails or anywhere else they go in the outdoors.  

I went to Junior 4-H camp for the first time when I was 10 years old. The camp happened to be two miles from my home, but it opened a world that influences me every day.

Organized camps have been a part of American society for over 150 years. Millions of children and adults in the US as well as around the world have participated in camps run by religiously affiliated groups, not-for-profit organizations, governments, and private individuals. “Camp gives kids a world of good” has been a catch phrase for marketing camps for decades.

My first experience at camp was not extraordinary but I loved it. My counselors were “cool,” and I knew that I wanted to be one when I “grew up.” I went to several 4-H camps throughout my school days and got to be a camp counselor. I spent summers while in college at the Iowa 4-H Camping Center, a Presbyterian church camp, a private camp in Colorado, and a girl scout day camp. Professionally, I had the chance to teach camp management, write a book on camp counseling, and author numerous research articles and thought pieces about the value of camp.

The first research about the character-building benefits of camp was published a hundred years ago (not by me!). Since then, many studies have documented the value of camp such as developing self-esteem and social skills. Most camp staff are intentional in helping campers develop social-emotional skills, and that is key to nurturing human development.

I think, however, there is nothing wrong with acknowledging that camp is good fun and that recreational activities (e.g., hiking, swimming, canoeing, crafts) can become lifelong skills. Learning often occurs the best in fun experiences. Recreation offers enjoyable ways to learn. Camp gives people a chance to be themselves and opportunities to play in safe environments.

One of the research studies that I always wanted to conduct was to ascertain how camp contributes to an enduring love of outdoor activities in particular. This possibility was true for me as the summer I was a camp counselor in Colorado solidified my ongoing love for the mountains and mountain activities.

Another aspect of camp that intrigues me is HOW certain outcomes occur at camp. Heath and Heath wrote a book called The Power of Moments that explores why certain experiences have an extraordinary impact on people. I had such an experience at a state-wide 4-H Leadership camp. Camp did not turn my life around as I was headed in a good direction. I had a counselor, however, who challenged and enriched me. At the end of the camp, she wrote in my autograph book, “Love, love, love, and share, share, share.” Those words have inspired me for over 50 years—loving people, loving nature, loving myself, and sharing my blessings, camp research, and experiences with others most recently through this blog.

Camps are not inherently good. The value depends on the people who direct and facilitate those experiences. Positive human development for kids and adults can occur in many places. Nevertheless, camp can be an affirmative experience that connects young and old to others as well as to nature. It can change lives and it can enrich people’s lives. Being connected to camp and camp people has given my world a whole lot of good.

On a zoom call with friends several weeks ago we discussed where we would like to live for a year outside of the US if we had a chance. In thinking about that fantasy, I realized that all the places I wanted to reside had sheep—New Zealand, Scotland, Wales, Ireland. I have a storied relationship with sheep.

My dad was a farmer with diversified crops and livestock. Not many farmers had sheep, but my dad did. My affinity for sheep came from him. After he retired from farming and moved to an acreage, he still kept a few sheep in a nearby pasture.

Dad liked to tell the story of how as a 3-year-old, I followed him all over the farm “helping” do chores. One time I was in the sheep yard and a ewe came and butted me down. As he tells it, I got up and she knocked me down again. I think my father watching this happen bordered a bit on child abuse, but unknowingly that ewe perhaps taught me a valuable lesson about getting up every time you get pushed down.

I saw a similar situation when I was hiking in Wales. Sheep were wandering around a parking lot near a trailhead and one of them pushed a little girl who was holding an ice cream cone. The parents quickly grabbed the child, but the sheep seized the ice cream cone.

Most sheep, however, are mild mannered and not always the brightest of animals. If you can get one sheep to go the direction you want, they all follow generally without exception.

Spring brings the lambing season. We almost always had an orphan lamb or two to feed when I was growing up. They could be orphaned because their mom died or had no milk, or mom refused to own them, or sometimes if triplets were born, one was just too small to survive with the others. The baby lambs came into the house and were put in a large box with a heat lamp. Feedings were with warm milk in a nipple topped pop bottle every few hours until the lambs could be put back in the barn with the others and fed twice a day with the bottle.

My first 4-H lambs were named Mercury, Venus, Neptune, and Pluto. I showed Mercury and Pluto at the County 4-H Fair and got one blue ribbon and one red ribbon. After the fair, we took them to Wilson’s meat packing plant in Cedar Rapids. I cried when I had to let them go. Dad made it clear that we raised livestock to sell, and I would have more lambs in the future. The money I got from them went to buying my first used 3-speed bike, and I did feel less sad.

I learned about sheep management over the years and had almost 30 of my own ewes by the time I graduated from high school. I sold them back to my dad and was able to finance my first two years of college tuition.

Although I struggle with the ethics of eating animal protein, lamb is my favorite meat. A friend who had grown up in Washington DC came with me to visit my parents many years ago. She said to me, “Now I am not going to meet an animal on your farm and then eat it for dinner that night, am I?” I assured her that it did not work that way. Mom fixed lamb when I came home because she knew I enjoyed it. After blessing our food at the dinner table, mom said, “Do you remember that little crippled lamb we bottle fed last spring?” My friend was horrified. It is what it is on the farm.

Volunteering with a Stuffed Sheep at Sheep Lakes

I do not see many domestic sheep these days. My favorite volunteer activity, however, is with the Bighorn Brigade at Sheep Lakes in Rocky Mountain National Park. The Bighorn Sheep come from high in the Mummy Range to Sheep Lakes periodically to eat the minerals in the mud that they crave in the late spring and summer. The Brigade interprets the area for visitors and assists with traffic control when the sheep cross the busy road. I am thrilled when the sheep arrive, and even happier when they safely head home to high in the mountains.

Regardless of where and what kind, sheep make me smile.

“One finger, one thumb, one arm, one leg keeping moving, and we’ll all be happy and bright.” Perhaps you remember that childhood song that has unknowingly become the style of my life. I love to be active. I am addicted to movement. When I can choose to sit or move, I pick motion.

I was confronted with my movement affinity two years ago after shoulder surgery. When I tried to walk to my mailbox a day after the surgery, I thought I was going to die of exhaustion. I was so frustrated. Fortunately, two days later a walk around my cul-de-sac was refreshing and I even did a three-mile hike (very carefully) on the fifth day post-surgery. It felt SO good.

As a kid, I was up early in the morning and remember some days feeling like I only quit when I was forced to go to bed. I loved playing outdoors–running, jumping, building forts out of sticks or hay bales, riding my bike, playing in the creek.

I am blessed with some athletic ability. I like sports and was a runner for over 40 years. I completed 12 marathons and dozens of half marathons. Several years ago, I calculated that the number of miles I ran in my lifetime was equivalent to running twice around the circumference of the earth-50,000 miles. I experienced beautiful environments in all kinds of weather in the outdoors.

My running has mostly been replaced these days with walking, hiking, and snowshoeing. Sometimes I move quickly, and other times I just slow down and amble along. I do not desire to be fast, just consistent and steady. I miss running. I recognized, however, that long distance training was hard on my body and adopting a slow living approach could allow me to be an active walker and hiker for years to come.

The Slow Movement is a trend in society focusing on slowing down. Slow living is a philosophy and lifestyle that emphasizes slower approaches to aspects of everyday life. It is movement or action at a relaxed or leisurely pace and involves a reflective approach. Slow living emphasizes savoring the minutes instead of counting them. The idea began in Italy with the slow food movement, which centers on traditional food production in response to fast food.

Slow living, however, does not mean inaction. For me, it means slower movement and being mindful of my motions, and emotions. My Fitbit is both a bane and a motivator to my mental and physical fitness. I do not want to be ruled by a device, but I do enjoy trying to meet my step (and sleep) goals, even though most of the time I probably would come close with or without having a real-time count from a gadget. I focus on savoring the steps rather than necessarily counting them.

My mom, without any tool, walked three miles a day for many years. At the age of 85, she began having mobility problems. She said to the doctor, “I don’t understand why this is happening to me. I have eaten well my whole life, I don’t smoke or drink, I wear a seatbelt, and I walk every day.”

The doctor looked at her and said, “Well, if you hadn’t done all that you probably would have had problems long ago.”

I am now focusing on doing everything at the right speed (for me), instead of rushing. I want to stay happy and bright by wandering in slower motion and being mindful of the steps I get to take.

This week marks the second anniversary of my mother’s passing. Never a day goes by that I do not think about my mom and my dad. I was privileged to have mom in my life for almost 70 years. I also had opportunities to visit her for a few days every other month through the last years of her life.

You can never prepare for a parent’s death no matter how inevitable it is. I thought perhaps I was ready, but now I understand that I will never be ready. Mom passed peacefully probably almost simultaneously with me leaving my home in Colorado to visit her for what I imagined would be my last time. I had been to Iowa two weeks before and we had enjoyed March Madness together. A week later she had a stroke that left her largely incapacitated.  

Mom’s body was still at the care center waiting to go the funeral home when I arrived in Iowa. The staff had put make-up on her and positioned her comfortably. She looked peaceful and at rest, although the memories I have of my mother are anything but “at rest.”

Preparations for the visitation and memorial service were easy as we knew what mom wanted such as the hymns and scriptures for the service. She wanted her ashes comingled with my father’s for spreading at a later time with a portion on the farm where they had lived for over 50 years. The remainder were to be buried under their headstone in the little community where they had both gone to high school and participated in numerous church and civic activities for over 60 years.

I love the stories people share about their mothers. My stories are not extraordinary. I am, however, reminded of my mother every time I look in a mirror since I resemble her greatly. Personality wise, however, I am not as outgoing, but I did inherit her energy level and work ethic. I know she was proud of me and always demonstrated unconditional love for me. I learned from her to be a reader and to be curious for knowledge. She was an exceptional teacher, and I sought to be like her.

Mom once told my sister that she did not think she was a good mother. I wish I could ask her what she meant. I think she did a pretty darn good job. I know she could be critical sometimes and a little inflexible, but none of us is perfect. She did her best and that is all anyone can hope.

A statement the pastor made in her memorial service resonates with me every day. She described my mother as “frugal and generous.” She definitely was frugal as a result of her upbringing and the influence of the depression on her life. In a “Grandma’s Life” book she put together for my niece, she wrote about how delighted each of her brothers and sisters were with the single gift of an orange they got in their Christmas stockings.

Generosity was evident throughout her life. For example, she was a lifelong volunteer. After retiring from teaching, she gave her efforts to Aid to Women (a program that provided resources and counseling for women in need), as a court mediator for the County Judicial system, and for the Historical Society in our small town.

Mom was also generous in helping individuals in need. She never forgot to send a card for someone’s birthday or for other special, or difficult, events.  I am reminded of two stories shared at the memorial service. Janet was an 11-year-old neighbor when my parents were first married. She told mom how much she really wanted to go to camp but her parents could not afford it. My mom called the Campfire Girls camp and offered to volunteer for a week as a counselor if they would let Janet go for free. Janet never forgot mom’s effort and kindness as she related the story 65 years later.

A second story concerned a young woman in the church who was going through difficult times emotionally and financially through no fault of her own. One day the young woman went to the mailbox to find a note and a $100 bill from mom. The note said, “I wanted to take one of the rocks off your pile. Please do not tell anyone about this note and a thank you is not needed.”

My mom deserves a lot of thanks. Frugal and generous is now my life mantra and my legacy to my mom.

Volunteering in Rocky Mountain National Park (ROMO) is a great pleasure in life. My encore performance in life is volunteering. I cherish the beauty and the wildlife that I experience every day, and I welcome the opportunity to be a helper in engaging people in conversations about the park regardless of whether they are locals or may only visit once in their lives.

A question I sometimes get working at the visitor center or at Bear Lake is, “What’s there to do here?” This question confounds me as I wonder what people are expecting when they come to a park. I find that responding back with, “What would you like to do in the park?” helps me best understand how to accommodate them. Some things cannot be done in the park like snowmobiling, target practice, or taking dogs on trails. Usually people just want to “see” the park, so I send them on a driving tour with a couple short walks.

“How long does it take to do the park?” is not an uncommon inquiry. That question also takes me aback. I say that it depends on how often you stop and admire the scenery, take photos, and/or walk on the trails. When people say they will be in the area for several days and want to get out to hike or snowshoe, I can give them dozens of suggestions.

Another common question relates to what animals are to be feared. Most people are concerned about bears. Educating them about the difference between grizzlies and black bears is useful. It is an opportunity to clarify that our black bears want their food and not them. I explain that the most dangerous animals in the park are the moody mooses and momma elk who have babies. Reinforcing that the park is NOT a zoo and these animals are NOT tame no matter how docile they look is a challenge.

The Information Office operates the phone line where people call with questions. One call I got was about the cost of a senior/lifetime pass. I told the man that the cost was $80, and he hesitated a bit. Then I described a $20/year annual senior option that could be converted to the lifetime pass in four years. He chuckled and said, “I think I will go with the $20 per year since I’m 92 years old and can’t guarantee that I will make it for four more years!”

When staffing the desk at Beaver Meadow Visitor Center, a middle-aged couple came to inquire about scattering the ashes of their deceased uncle in the park. The park allows such scattering of cremains (human and animal) but requires a permit with certain limitations on where ashes can be scattered. The gentleman told me soberly that they would be coming to the park again in a few weeks and wanted to scatter the ashes then. I gave him the form, explained some of the restrictions, and suggested a few places that would be lovely for ash scattering. As the couple turned to leave, I thought it was appropriate for me to say, “I am sorry for your loss.” The man quickly responded expressionlessly, “Oh, don’t be. He was a son-of-a-#*@!h.”

Most people come to the park genuinely interested in learning and doing the right thing. I love being a helper, as Mr. Rogers would offer. It isn’t altruism, however. I am invigorated when I see the park anew through a visitor’s perspective. I appreciate working with other volunteers who feel as passionate as me. I never tire of the conversations regardless of how profound or mundane they are.

In Illusions, Richard Bach describes my attitude about the sky, weather, and clouds, “the sky is always changing, but it is always a perfect sky.” I keep my eyes on the sky. I unabashedly claim the title of weather nerd since all my life I have been interested in the weather. I would have been a meteorologist if I had had any confidence in my science and math ability. Not having pursued that career, I revel in my amateur status as one who loves looking at clouds.

My fascination with weather began on the farm. I learned early from my dad that every endeavor in farming was influenced by the weather. A farmer’s eyes were always on the sky. The failure or success of crops as well as livestock management depended on knowing what weather might portend. Dad taught me to read the weather—what clouds meant, what wind changes might ordain, and how to smell coming rain and/or snow. I kept a cloud chart on my childhood bedroom wall. I have amused my friends over the years with my “predictions” of impending weather that often, not always, come true.

My professional career was little influenced by the weather. Weather had more to do with my personal activities, although most of the time clouds and weather did not slow me down. If I bundled up, I could run in subzero temperatures in Wisconsin. A little rain was often a refreshing experience in the heat of running in the South, as long as it was not a thunderstorm. In Colorado I refuse to let the wind in the winter dictate how much time I spend outdoors.

Carolina skies are blue, and Colorado skies are bluebird blue. I have more access to the wide-open spaces making my sky observances easier now than when in the tree canopies of North Carolina. I am still learning to make sense of the weather patterns often mitigated by the presence of mountains and upslope winds. I continually look to the sky to see what it forewarns as well as the splendor it offers. 2015 was my “year in clouds” on Facebook. I shared photos of clouds that thrilled me, whether they were breath-taking sunrises or sunsets, or just interesting cloud formations. I am always mindful of the ever-changing perfect skies.

When I think of clouds and the sky, I sometimes reflect on the words from Joni Mitchell’s song, Both Sides Now. The metaphor seems to be that clouds are equivalent to life. I cannot agree more. The lyrics note, however, “so many things I would have done but clouds got in my way.” Yes, sometimes life got in my way, but clouds generally have not deterred me.

To take Mitchell’s cloud symbols further, I believe skies have taught me to reflect, “It’s cloud’s illusions I recall. I really don’t know clouds at all.” I am learning that the beginning of wisdom is when a person comes to wonder just how much she does not know about clouds (or life). I continue to learn about the world, and part of that learning is to be conscious of the beauty and awe of the skies.

I deeply adored a rabbit. His name was Wilson who had been rescued from an animal shelter by my neighbors. They built a 3’ x 8’ covered hutch in their backyard where Wilson lived alone but cavorted with local squirrels and wild rabbits. The neighbors were moving and asked if I wanted him. They assured me he was low maintenance—rabbit pellets, water, a clean and dry place to live, and a daily carrot. How hard could that be? We moved him in the hutch to my backyard.

All went well for several months until Wilson (aka Bun-Bun) acquired an eye infection. I found a vet who made a house call to diagnose him. I feared having to catch him in the hutch. The vet, however, captured him, checked him over, gave some antibiotics, and charged me an exorbitant fee for the visit. He got better for a few weeks and then the infection returned.

Another vet nearby specialized in dogs, cats, and rabbits. I caught and crated Wilson for the vet visit. Dr. Bussey was caring and stern. She informed me kindly that I had no business owning a rabbit since I knew nothing about them. Keeping a rabbit alone outside year around in a cage was not the best practice. She procured a 6’ x 6’ collapsible metal fence hutch for me to put in my living room. I had to exercise Wilson every day by letting him out to hop around the great room. She treated the infection and assured me that the new living conditions would be in Wilson’s best interest. In the house he had two cats as potential friends, but the cats cared less, and Wilson mostly ignored them. A couple times I tried to cuddle with him, but he wanted nothing to do with my overtures. Nevertheless, I became devoted to Bun-Bun.

His eyes did not improve. Dr. Bussey determined that he had plugged tear glands and needed an operation. I felt sorry for Wilson and also guilty about being a terrible rabbit mother. One of the eyes was fixed before he coded on the operating table and had to be revived. The $1500 surgery was only partially successful, but he didn’t have any eye problems again.

Several months later, however, Wilson began having seizures. Medication helped control but Dr. Bussey warned me that it was really hard to tell how old Wilson was and she did not know what might be causing the seizures.

The seizures became more frequent and eventually Wilson refused to go for his daily exercise and ate less and less.  He seemed to be uninterested no matter how many carrots and greens I used for bribery. It was time to let Bun-Bun go.

I held Wilson in a fluffy fleece towel while Dr. Bussey gave the first shot of sedative to calm him down. He snuggled up to me– the first time that had ever happened. His deep brown eyes connected with my blue eyes and then he closed them gently while mine filled with tears. Wilson took one last deep breath. I imagined him now in a peaceful field where he could see everything, run in the grass with other rabbits and not on a hardwood floor, and where carrots were abundant.

I doubt I will have another rabbit. I did the best I could as a rabbit mom, but I do not want that role again. Whenever I see a cottontail rabbit or a snowshoe hare in the wild, however, I remember Bun-Bun fondly.

The Hidden Life of Trees is a book about how trees have social systems among themselves and how they take care of each other. Trees have “brains” in their roots that protect them and help communicate with one another. Another book called The Overstory: A Novel is a compelling fictionalized account of people’s experiences with trees and their value for civilization. In thinking about the meanings of trees in my life, three special trees come to mind.

A sprawling tall maple tree shaded the south side of my childhood farmhouse. I loved the tire swing dad put on a lower branch for us kids to use. The Angus cows huddled in its shade on the other side of the fence. It tendered the most brilliant red and orange leaves in the fall. Since our farmhouse was set on a hill, the maple was visible for some distance. When my parents sold the farm years ago, the tree was showing signs of stress. I drove by the old farm a year ago and the tree was gone. Since the farm had been in the family for almost 150 years, the maple had lived a long life under Henderson appreciation.

North Carolina has trees—lots of them. Many are tall white pines. My house in Durham with its three-fourths acre lot had dozens of trees as its natural landscape. My favorite, however, was a cedar tree that grew outside my home office window. The tree provided privacy, and songbirds loved to roost in the lower branches. My realtor offered helpful hints to make my house more desirable when I was preparing to move to Colorado. He suggested that my relationship with the house and trees might not be alluring to everyone. The cedar tree was hiding the curb appeal of the house. I balked at cutting it down. Unfortunately, a winter ice storm broke off the top. It had to go. I waited until the weekend before I put the house on the market and my neighbor helped me cut it down. My house looked naked, and I blessed the tree for all the years it had brought me and the birds such joy.

I love many trees in Rocky Mountain National Park. One of them was along the trail to Hollowell Park. It is a lone Ponderosa that had died many years ago but left a majestic silhouette of gray branches reaching toward the sky. It was the gateway to an old CCC camp once located in the area. I can imagine the stories it could tell for the century or more it presided in that meadow. Last year it fell down. The skeleton is on the ground, and the stories continue from a different vantage.

These remembered trees, and other living trees, are my ardent connection to the outdoors. I have other favorite trees that I look forward to seeing along the trails. They are like old friends when I wander upon them—the twisted limber pine on the way to Mills Lake, the tuning fork shaped ponderosa on Bridal Veil Falls Trail, and the huge Ponderosa on the northeast corner of Sprague Lake, to mention only a few.

I envy the trees. They experience firsthand the fluctuating weather as well as season transformations. I imagine trees rejoice in the bathing of the sun. I suspect they welcome the animals and insects that call them home. They are resilient in cruel weather that could tear them apart. Trees hold secrets that humans may never understand unless we continue to love and protect them.  

I miss the making of music. I felt that loss when group music-making was taken away by COVID-19. I know others who play musical instruments and/or sing in choruses feel the same way.

I began my musical life when I was 7 years old. Mom made me take piano lessons and exchanged eggs for the lessons each week. I loved playing the piano and even dabbled at composing some piano music. My most famous piece was called Picasso because it was a mish mash of chords and rhythm. In 5^th grade I started playing a cornet and gave up piano lessons.

We had an old cornet in the family that my uncle once played so I was destined for that instrument. I practiced religiously and loved playing in band–marching band, pep band, and concert band as well as small group ensembles. I did not like playing solos, however, and froze whenever it was forced upon me. I relished making music and being part of musical groups. In high school, I switched to playing a borrowed French horn because we needed another horn player in our concert band.

After graduating from high school, I did not play a brass instrument for over 20 years. In 1990 a friend, Leandra, leased a trumpet for me for two months as a birthday gift (she signed herself up as my band parent!). I had talked about wanting to play because I knew a couple other musicians, but it was just daydreaming. I picked the trumpet up and played a recognizable version of my high school’s fight song, On Wisconsin. I soon joined the Durham Community Concert Band. Rehearsals were two hours of each week when I became totally immersed in music without thinking about anything else. I love the concept of community bands because anyone can participate regardless of age, ability, or talent.

For 30 years I have been a mediocre amateur musician. I delight in playing with other music makers and I often feel a well of emotion for the beautiful music I can help create. Playing the Hallelujah Chorus with its great trumpet parts always brings tears to my eyes. I am humbled to play music from contemporary composers such as Edward Elgar (e.g., Nimrod from Enigma Variations) and Eric Whitacre (e.g., October). I have been associated with some inspirational directors/conductors who have transmitted the emotions of music deep to my heart.

Almost a year has passed since I rehearsed or performed with any musical group. At first I didn’t mind. I thought we would be back together soon. After six months, it became obvious that it was not going to happen quickly. Deb, who also plays a cornet, and I decided that we really needed to get our lips back in shape for the time when we could play with the local groups again. Since December holiday concerts were cancelled, we undertook a zoom Christmas Concert for our families and friends. We described our concert as “6^th grade students” playing junior high music. Our zoom guests, however, were appreciative.

Deb and I continue to practice so we are ready to make music with our community band when the time comes. I cherish the opportunity to go back to rehearsals every week and be part of groups aiming to bring concert music, regardless of how sophisticated it is, to the community.