Author: KARLA_HENDERSON

Sunrise in Estes Park on December 10, 2020

 

“Early to bed, early to rise, makes a [person] healthy, wealthy, and wise.” I remember my mom using that adage when I was growing up.  I am going with those possibilities as a partial explanation for why I am a morning person.

I cannot wait to get up to start a new day. I am one of those perky people that sometimes drive other non-morning people crazy, but I love seeing the first daylight. Everyone has a time of the day that they function best, and mine is early in the morning. In full disclosure, I also admit that I am a coffee addict and LOVE my first cup of coffee within minutes of getting out of bed so that’s a further morning motivation.

Everyone has different biorhythms and I know people who function best late at night. By early evening, however, I am usually exhausted and just want to sit down and do nothing. The longer the day gets, the more I slow down. When I used to teach, I found I was more productive with research and writing in the morning and did better at teaching in the afternoon when I had decelerated a bit (my students appreciated that!) and got my energy from interactions with learners in the classroom.

I always thought my mom and dad were morning people, but I think that was not necessarily by choice living on a farm. There was always far more to do each day than could get done and an early start was important. Plus, the animals were waiting to be fed shortly after sunrise. It was not until my mom and dad moved off the farm that I realized that my mom did not really like mornings. My dad, on the other hand, still got up early even when he no longer had animals to feed. For him, somewhat like me today, it was an enjoyable pattern.

I have pleasant and vivid memories of early mornings on the farm. Our farmhouse faced the east and seeing the sunrise from the breakfast table was often stunning looking across the rolling Eastern Iowa landscape. I liked the quiet of the morning. I liked seeing the new light.

My mom said that a person learned best in the morning. She told me that I would do better on tests if I studied one last time in the morning. I remember as a second grader crawling into bed with my mom to practice my spelling words on many mornings.

Through most of my life, when I needed to get something important done, I could always accomplish more in the morning than any other time of day. Now that I am retired, I do not have to get up early each day. But I do.

I love the morning mountain light and the quiet of my little town. I still relish writing early when I feel my brain is freshest. I enjoy journaling at the beginning of the day and reflecting on the gratitude I hold and my affirmations for remaining positive in the new day.  I don’t think I am healthier, wealthier, or wiser than other people, but I do know I will likely always be a morning person.

My Dad was a farmer all his life. He connected with the land and with the animals that he raised as his business. My love for animals came from my Dad. I look back at his life and realize that he was raising animals for food, but he also cared about them.

All animals on the farm, however, had to have a purpose. Dogs were meant to be protectors of the homestead and were expected to be helpful (and not a hindrance) with livestock. Cats were necessary for keeping the rodent populations down around farm buildings. Population control of cats was not needed as it seemed to occur naturally. Neither cats nor dogs were allowed in the farmhouse, but their lives were made as comfortable as possible on porches or in barns.

Thomas was the first cat, however, that owned my Dad. Thomas was a big striped yellow tabby. He wasn’t as big when my Dad first discovered him hiding in a rusted-out wagon that was partially covered by some metal siding unevenly slung over the top. Hay scraps provided some cushioning on the wooden floor. Dad tried to coax out the spitting young feline, but Thomas wanted nothing to do with my Dad. He ran off when Dad got too close.

Two days later, Dad surprised the feral cat who was back in the wagon snoozing. On Dad’s next trip to town, he bought a small bag of cheap cat food and put a plastic dish at the end of the wagon where the cat came to hide and rest. A day later, the dish was empty. The regular feeding began as did the time spent trying to cajole the cat to come closer.

The wild cat was a tomcat, so Dad uncreatively named him Thomas. After a couple weeks, Thomas wandered closer when Dad left the food. My Dad’s quiet gentle voice eventually encouraged Thomas to relax enough for a quick stroke on the head. A few days later, Thomas was waiting in the wagon every evening for Dad to come by and give him a few pats before leaving the food. Within another month, Thomas started following Dad around the farmstead. Whenever my Mom appeared or anyone else came too close, Thomas ran to hide. It was not uncommon to see my Dad walking through the alfalfa field on his way up the hill to feed his stock cows and see a striped, yellow tail following behind him.

Thomas seemed to adore Dad but would also take off on his own for periods of 2-3 days. After all, he was a tomcat. Dad would worry but Thomas always returned from his outings and seemed eagerly grateful to have affection and street food. My sister suggested that if Thomas were neutered, perhaps he would not stray as often. My Dad thought that was a ridiculous thing to spend money on. Besides, Thomas was a tomcat, and his gender identity should not be deterred. One day my sister caught Thomas and took him to the vet. My Dad was not happy, but it was done. Unfortunately, the procedure did not seem to change Thomas’s wandering ways.

Dad secured Thomas a permanent refuge in his shop. He had an old wooden peach crate with a cushy blue blanket snuggled into it. The haven faced the south window where the sun streamed in and Thomas could survey the fields without moving. He was king of the shop and the adjoining shed where nary a mouse nor rat dared set up habitation.

For the next two years, Thomas was Dad’s constant companion, at least when in residence. He would sit outside the house most mornings awaiting his breakfast and the help he would give Dad in feeding the cows. Thomas wandered sometimes but always returned after a day of absence.

A time came, however, when Thomas did not return after two days. The winter was coming on and it was getting cold. Dad walked all over his acreage and his neighbors’ fence rows looking and calling for Thomas. He talked to everyone he could in the neighborhood about whether they had seen a big yellow tabby tomcat. With each first morning light, Dad looked outside to see if Thomas was at the door. Two weeks went by, and then three weeks, and the first snowstorm happened. As Christmas approached, it seemed evident that Thomas was not coming home.

Thomas was Dad’s last cat. He and Mom moved to an independent living residence several months later. No pets were allowed.

Volunteering is what I do. I proudly and unabashedly enjoy being a volunteer. I have been a volunteer all my life, but now I claim it as central to my life.

I have long been fascinated by volunteerism and often wonder why people choose to do what they do. Although I did not realize it at the time, I grew up in a small rural community that would never have functioned without volunteers in churches, the school, the library, farm organizations, and youth groups. My parents volunteered in many ways, as did most adults that I knew.

One of my fondest memories of volunteering as a kid was planting white pine tree seedlings at a newly designated county park near our farm. Over the years, I never drove by the park without marveling at what my volunteer efforts on one Saturday morning as a 4-H member had yielded as the trees flourished in the park.

 In my first job as a County 4-H Youth Development Agent, I had volunteers who had been 4-H leaders continuously starting long before I was born. Year after year after year. Those men and women inspired me eventually to write my PhD dissertation about volunteerism and what motivates people. I found to no great surprise that most volunteering was a combination of wanting to make a difference in a community, to associate with like-minded others, and to have some “say” in how organizations operated.

Volunteering comes in many forms. It can be doing something structured on a regular basis such as being a 4-H leader or having a regular weekly shift as a “weed warrior” in the park. It can be making donations. It can be informal such as helping a sick friend by bringing food. It can be serving as an officer or committee member for an organization. It can be helping once a year with a community event.

To me, volunteering means giving of my time and resources to causes that I believe in. The rewards of volunteering are intrinsic but not totally altruistic. Volunteering is not selfless for me. It brings happiness and satisfaction and has had collateral benefits like making new friends and learning fresh ways of thinking.

Volunteering also resonates with the Buddhist and Hinduism ideas of karma. In the Christian tradition, I also believe that volunteers “reap what they sow.” I don’t give so I can get, but I think that investing as much good into the world as possible is significant.

Volunteerism is not uniquely American, but it sets us apart from some other places in the world. In 1831, French political scientist, Alexis de Tocqueville, visited the United States and wrote about the broader workings of American society, including the American tendency toward volunteerism. He noted that volunteering links people together in common causes and enables us to see and appreciate each other’s humanity. Volunteering for me is what makes America great. It embodies kindness and common bonds.

When people ask me why I moved to Estes Park, I have many reasons. At the top of the list, however, is that I wanted a second career as a volunteer, a Volunteer in the Park (VIP) in Rocky Mountain National Park. I love volunteering at the park, and I want to help others enjoy the park passionately, safely, and with an environmental mindfulness. I don’t always know if I make a difference, but I have to trust that I do and that I am being of service to something bigger than myself.

The compensation for volunteering became evident to me two years ago. I was volunteering on a late spring morning with three other volunteers at Rainbow Curve in Rocky Mountain National Park. Trail Ridge Road was temporarily closed because of an overnight snowstorm. Our job was to talk to people who were parked and waiting for the road to open, and to answer questions about the park. Some people were disappointed and frustrated, and our task was to clarify and update folks on the situation. As the road was about to be opened, a visitor walked up to me and said, “Thank you. This place is beautiful, but the smiles of the volunteers are equally as beautiful.” That was my reward for being an unabashed volunteer!

Remember when you were a kid looking forward to Christmas? You probably couldn’t wait for that magic day. You also likely have fond memories of Christmases past with family and friends. Anticipation and memories are clearly part of most people’s Christmas experiences.

One of my favorite concepts to teach regarding recreation programs was the notion of the “recreation experience.” It can have many dimensions but the simplest way to describe an experience is that it includes a) the anticipation, b) the activity itself, and c) the recollection of the event. Looking forward to something is an important part of any experience, as is looking back with warm memories and stories to tell. The activity itself is essential but without the first and third aspects, the experience can be diminished.

A hard part about this Covid-19 era is how it has changed my recreation experiences because of the uncertainty and lack of anticipation regarding if and when something might happen as well as fewer activities and therefore, fewer memories. I am still doing some of the things I did pre-pandemic like hiking and volunteering. For me, however, I am thinking about new ways to understand and appreciate everyday experiences.

In daily experiences, I have become more aware of mindfulness and staying in the moment. Appreciating recreation experiences mindfully is more evident to me as I have more time to reflect on what I have lost AND what I have gained.

Last week I invited several friends to share a “full moon rising stroll.” I planned what we might do, where we might go, and how I could make the experience fun. We did the stroll and had a magical hour in the twilight as it turned to darkness. I was mindful of the sights and sounds of our stroll. I have been thinking about the evening and reliving the wonders of the moon shadows and moonlight reflections on Sprague Lake ever since (see photos above). For me, it was a mindfully complete recreation experience.

To live mindfully is to live in the moment and acknowledge the value of the present. It is not about dwelling on the past or fearfully anticipating the future. To be mindful is to observe and label thoughts and feelings in an intentional manner, and that can relate to looking forward to and remembering good times.  Being aware that I am awaiting something in the future that will bring me joy is positive. Staying in the moment and trying not to worry about the past or future is helping me enjoy the simpler pleasures I now have. This time of being alone more than in the past has given me the freedom and opportunity to focus on future, current, and past blessings in my life.

As I at times lament my present lack of extensive recreation activities (e.g., travelling and trips), I have also come to enjoy simple experiences more fully. For example, I am anticipating the yummy tika masala that I am going to get for take-out this evening. And I am still reflecting on the moonlight across the frozen lake from earlier this week. As I move toward a Christmas that will be different than in the past, I am targeting how to mindfully prepare for and enjoy the Holiday in real and virtual spaces and time. I also look forward to new stories to tell based on mindful recollections.

I admit it—I am a crazy cat person. Well, maybe not totally crazy as I don’t have a dozen cats. I just have two, but I am crazy about them—especially the two that own me now.

Some people are dog people, and some are horse people. I even know some rabbit (bunny) people and chicken people. Other people connect to various combinations.  However, cats seem to fit my life and personality better with their independence and general low-maintenance nature. Becoming crazy about (my) cats is a discovery of my adult life.

I grew up with barn cats. I did not know anyone who had a cat in the house, but we relied on our barn kitties to keep down the rodent population on the farm. These cats came and went. Taking any of them to the veterinarian for shots or spaying/neutering was not something any farmer did. There were always new cats coming in to replace the cats that met a fateful demise.

About 40 years ago, however, my whole attitude changed about cats when I came to know the house cats of some friends. One of the cats eventually came to live with me and I have not been without a cat ever since.

DJ, that first cat that lived with me was a gray tabby. She and I seemed to get along fine, although she really hated other people and other cats. I think she liked me at first because I was so indifferent to her. She and I came to a truce and pretty much agreed that we could live together as long as neither of us expected much from the other one. When she begrudgingly passed away at the old age of 18, I cried for days.

Shortly after DJ passed, I got a white kitten. Raising a kitten was so much fun and Dover and I bonded immediately. I called her my puppy kitty because she followed me around the house just like dogs tend to do. She lived a long life, too, but not nearly long enough as everyone knows who has ever loved a pet.

I now have 2 kitties. Mog is another gray/brown tabby with an attitude. She has international roots as I understand that in England and Australia, cats are sometimes called moggies. The M represents the ears, the O is the head, and the G is the body and tail. I call her MOG with a long O since Americans have such a harder language than does anyone with a slightly British accent.

M

O

g

Mog’s sibling brother is completely gray and not at all like his sister. I think he is partly wild cat but perhaps his name, Gitch, which has no particular meaning, describes his gitchy manor. Mog’s demure meow and Gitch’s relentless yowls highlight the difference between the two, and what makes me crazy about both of them.

The cats and I have rituals each day. In the morning Mog jumps on the bed first thing so I can give her pats and chat about our night’s sleep. Before I go to bed, she uses the litter box when I brush my teeth, and then crawls into my lap while I read. When I turn over to go to sleep, she finds her spot at the edge of the bed. Gitch usually sleeps elsewhere but wakes me up in the morning by sitting in the recycling box shredding paper until I yell at him to “STOP!”

I love my cats. I know they understand my moods and react to my feelings. I cannot deny, like most know who have ever loved a pet, they make me smile and feed my soul each day. I like being a CRAZY. CAT. PERSON.

I love coffee. I have been a coffee drinker for almost 60 years. Deep, dark chewy coffee with a little bit of half and half to make it light caramel looking.

These COVID -19 days I mostly drink my coffee alone, and I have come to really love my coffee mugs. Not only does the fresh brewed KIND (local Estes Park café and roastery) coffee smell and taste delightful, but each morning I choose a cup from my cupboard that brings back memories that make me smile for the second time each day. (My first smile is from my kitty who jumps on the bed as soon as she hears me stir in the morning and demands head pats, but that is a topic for another entry).

Almost all of my mugs and coffee cups were gifts from someone, so that makes them extra special. I choose the one that matches my mood for the day. Some of my favorites are:

              – My NC State PRTM 50^th anniversary cup reminds me of my colleagues at NC State who were my friends long before I worked there—the Department is now almost 75 years old.

              – “Always keep a little Wisconsin in your Heart,” a gift from my UW coworkers, is well worn but takes me back to my early career in Badger land.

              – My SWOOP (Strong Women Organizing Outrageous Projects) mug attests to what caring North Carolina women can do to help people in communities who are “elderly, disabled, or simply overwhelmed.”

              – A sheep mug prompts me to think of my farm roots and how much I loved raising sheep when I was a 4-H kid.

              – A Guggenheimesque looking mug that all attendees received at a World Leisure Conference in Bilbao, Spain over 20 years ago is reminiscent of special friends and colleagues all over the world.

              – A gift from my friend, Dan Dustin, of a rustic mug with Mt. Whitney written on it harkens me to the magnificent backpacking trip on a major portion of the John Muir Trail and our climb of Mt. Whitney.

              – Often I use a plain yellow ceramic mug with an inscription on the bottom about placing 2^nd in my age group on a 10-mile trail run in North Carolina. I love the sturdiness of the mug and it strikes a chord about how much I love movement, as well as that trail running is not something I want to do very often.

              – A Starbucks Cup from Lukla, Nepal that takes me back to the breathtaking and arduous trip to Everest Base Camp a few years ago.

              – My most recent mug from the Trailmasters (Park Volunteers at Bear Lake) retells the unforgettable summer of 2020—a bear with a mask on his/her face! I wonder how I will feel about that mug in the future.

I suspect everyone has special objects that bring a smile to their faces when they wear or use them (e.g., ball caps, beer glasses, dishes, teacups). At this time in my life, it is the little things, like coffee and coffee mugs, that bring me joy and remind me how grateful I am for special times in my life.

On October 22, I threw a bunch of stuff into my car along with my two kitties and evacuated my house because of “immediate and imminent danger” due to wildfires. Never had I expected that I would be leaving so abruptly.

I had watched wildfires at other places and knew that Colorado was vulnerable. Firefighters had been fighting a fire several miles from my house for several weeks, but we were assured that it was not likely to head our way. The fire we were now evacuating from was a different fire that had blown up, jumped the continental divide, was burning through Rocky Mountain National Park, and was headed for Estes Park.

The sky at the time I was corralling the kitties and jamming some clothes into a suitcase gave a whole new meaning to “burnt orange.” It was that color! I had to turn lights on to see into my dresser drawers to pull out underwear and socks. In retrospect, it was creepy and portentous. I never hope I again have to put my car lights on at 1:00 pm so I can drive.

My evacuation choices easily fit into my car. I paused for a moment to say good-bye to a house I didn’t know if I would ever see again. I joined the hundreds of people in the evacuation lines who were scared, wondering, and hopeful that they would be safe somewhere else with their most prized living and inanimate possessions.

With a couple of friends, we found a hotel about 40 miles away that accepted our animals. It was a tense couple of days as the fire continued to rage toward our little town. Thanks to the fire fighters and Higher Powers, a winter storm halted its spread, and my home was spared.  Others were not so lucky.

While I was an evacuee and since returning home, I have been thinking about “stuff.” If I had more than a half hour to leave my house, and a larger car to load, I don’t think I would have done anything differently.

I had thought about “what if a fire” in abstract terms and made a list of what I needed/wanted to take including my two cats, medications, and a few important documents. I wanted to take my computer because of the photos I had stored on it. Most of my possessions, however, are replaceable.

I did take some things that I felt were unique and irreplaceable including several quilts made by my mother and my sister. My sister could always make me a quilt again, but not the t-shirt quilt that had all my logos from the marathons and other important races I once ran. My deceased mother could not replace the quilts she made years ago. I also had the candles that were at my mom and dad’s memorial services and I didn’t want to lose them. I had a plaque given to my mom and dad as outstanding sheep producers in our county and that was special. I have dozens of my own plaques but none of those matter much to me. My car had plenty of room for other things–I couldn’t think of anything else that was essential.

Now that I am safely home, I continue to think about what is really important. If I had it to do over again, I wouldn’t have taken anything else except maybe my trumpet, although aside from the sentimental value of all the performances I’ve done, it could be easily replaced. I forgot the litter scooper, toys, and dishes to feed my kitties, but a PetSmart near our hotel was a saving grace. I have stuff that I would miss if it was gone, but overall, now I realize how much I could live without.

I was privileged to safely evacuate and know that my insurance and savings could cover any physical losses. I don’t need much stuff in my life as long as I have family, friends, and animals. I also have been thinking about people who are refugees in this world due to the climate crisis and civil wars, or those leaving home to seek asylum. I cannot begin to imagine those types of threatening evacuation situations.

My experience with this fire was daunting, but I have recovered with heightened gratitude for what I have, and a much greater understanding of the anxiety of imagined and real loss.   

A good friend of mine once remarked that, “We live for the stories we can tell.” I guess people’s lives are really one big story with many vignettes along the way. Some of the stories are funny. Some are sad. Some show lessons that can be learned. Others simply entertain. Most of us love good stories.

These days my time is spent wandering and wondering–thinking about stories in the present and from the past. I wander taking hikes and/or long walks every day. That meandering gives me time to wonder not only about my surroundings but what has influenced my life.

Ever since I retired and moved to Estes Park, I have wanted to share thoughts through some type of personal reflective blog. Although I have plenty of time to do the writing, my insecurity about sharing has kept me from taking the plunge. I think I am now ready to share some stories that may be of interest to others. I’m going to give it a go!

The pandemic of the past few months has reinforced the need to be mindful daily and to stay in the moment. At the same time, I wonder what the future might hold as I reflect on where I have been. My Iowa farm roots as well as a career with abundant opportunities to teach, travel, and write has equipped me to view my world in many ways. Writing has been a way of life for me since I wrote my first (unpublished) novel when I was 6 years old. I consume quantities of information every day, and I want to create some reflections from my reading, my past life, my present reality, and my future world.

I am shooting for one post a week, maybe more and maybe less. I anticipate the pieces to be relatively short (200-1000 words).  I need to write and to think out loud as I tell my stories. I hope my wandering and wondering will make you smile, remember, and/or raise an eyebrow. A writer needs to write and share from time to time. I look forward to connections that I might make through the stories I tell.

People notice other people’s hair fairly quickly.  It’s part of what one sees in recognizing another person. I have been blessed with a good head of hair, thanks to the genes of my mother. I am reminded of my hair often since it seems to get noticed.

Years ago, I was being introduced as a keynote speaker at a conference and the introducer ended her description of my achievements by saying, “And she has a great head of hair.” I was a little taken back by the comment but decided I should just embrace it, and I have ever since.

Last year I was volunteering at Bear Lake on a Sunday morning. It was snowing pretty hard. A smiling man walked across the bridge to the ranger kiosk and said, “You have a lot of snow in your hair.” “I do?” I asked and reached my hand up to shake it off my brown volunteer stocking cap. He said, “Oh no, it’s your lovely white hair.”

A couple weeks later I was sitting in an airline lounge waiting for my flight back to Denver and one of the employees walked up to me and said, “I just want to tell you how beautiful your hair is.” I gladly took that compliment.

I owe my good hair to my mom. She always had thick hair and although I do remember that she colored it when I was younger, she let it go natural fairly early and had the same progression as mine did from a few strands of gray to what is called “salt and pepper” and eventually gray and then white. White is my color now although it was a little hard to suggest that my drivers’ license should say that instead of gray. My little sister also has hair similar to my mom and me. My middle sister does not. We used to tease her that she had inherited our dad’s hair and someday she would be bald like him. Not popular with her! Since she has stopped coloring, her hair has gradually gone gray, but nothing like mom, me, or my other sister.

I have always liked my hair. I might look younger with darker hair, but I think gray/white hair can be a sign of aging gracefully and accepting the potential of wisdom that it brings. I certainly hope so!