A Christmas story from the grocery store

The woman in front of me in a bargain-store grocery line looked tired. A bit on the heavy side, she was dressed in saggy pants and a well-worn sweatshirt. Her hair was unkempt, her posture slumped. 

I made a quick judgement. Poor white trash.

I should know, at my advanced age, that you can NEVER judge a person by appearance. I learned that when teaching high school in my twenties. Not infrequently, the most thoughtful, creative, sensitive, interesting and bright students were also the weirdest looking.

I overheard the poor white trash lady telling the checker that she was exhausted and  soooo glad that she didn't have to go to work the next day (Saturday) and that she had two weeks off.

"Oh," I piped in."You're a teacher?"

Brilliant deduction, eh? I continued my strong line of questioning.  I was once a reporter, you know.

"What grade do you teach?" I inquired.

Another preconceived notion wormed into my brain; a woman with her appearance probably didn't have a college degree and taught in an unlicensed daycare or preschool. This was not a conscious thought, but there it was anyway.

But no.  She taught two high school classes and three junior high. (I didn't ask what subjects she taught. But by now I'm thinking physics or math.)

She said she works in a Title 1 school, which means a school where the majority of students are officially impoverished, qualifying for reduced or free lunch. Homelessness, child abuse and neglect, domestic violence, meth use, hunger, lack of health and dental care, yards festering with rusted cars and crumbling appliances, skinny dogs and feral cats are not uncommon. And neither are feral kids.

Sadly, this type of poverty not unusual in rural Southern Oregon. Teachers who choose to work in impoverished communities are to be honored.

Now she has my full attention.

"I teach five classes a day, and yesterday I had a Christmas party for every class,' she said.

No wonder she was tired. But it gets more interesting.

Not only did she have five holiday parties, but each one was a tea party! I didn't get all the details, but she mentioned the porcelain tea cups and little sandwiches and such. And the fact that she had lots of volunteers helping out.

Imagine! I could hardly. Five hours of porcelain tea cups in the hands of adolescents.

In my twenties, I taught four years of high school English in Minnesota, and one year in a Southern Oregon middle school, the worst year of my life! Including 2002, the year I almost died of septic shock.

I told her I'd been a teacher and strongly preferred high school to junior high.

"Not me," said declared. "I like them both, but the younger kids are my favorites."

"That's great! "I enthused. "The junior high kids really need people who love them."

After a pause, she looked me the eye and said, "They do need that, and that's what I give them. I love them."

Her groceries were checked, and so were my misconceptions.

I thanked her for the vital work she's doing, and for loving young people who can be difficult to love.

She was headed toward the exit and flashed a bright smile as she rounded the corner toward the parking lot.

As she left the store with her overflowing cart, I thought she was the most beautiful person I'd met in ages.  A dedicated teacher with an overflowing heart.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to her, and to all teachers.

 And to you, people who read my blog. You can't imagine how much I appreciate you.

May 2018 be filled with insights, adventures, love, acts of kindness, and impromptu and enlightening conversations with strangers, no matter what they look like.

Let your little light shine.

Older sister's warnings about aging all too true

My dear sister, Monette Johnson, alongside the Mississippi River in Coon Rapids, Minnesota, not far from where she lives. To my knowledge, she has never addressed the river regarding unpleasant changes it may encounter as it meanders through the eons. Not so with me, her way younger sister, as I grind along behind her through the decades. She has issued multiple dire warnings, and lo, they are coming to pass. 

The first time Monette alerted me about aging, she was perhaps in her fifties and I, my forties. She sent me a birthday card with the thoughtful message: If you think you're old now, wait five years.

Later her warnings had to do with cringing at the mirror and seeing "new wrinkles every day." She was closing in on 70. I was a mere 61, which you must believe, if you are younger, really does make a huge difference. 

Now, at almost 73, "new wrinkles" is my every-day mirror experience. And also divots, shadows, sags, rough spots, or food particles lodged between my crowded teeth.  And let's not talk about the neck.

Nora Ephron, a fabulous funny writer already did that in her 2006 book, I Feel Bad About My Neck and Other Thoughts on Being a Woman.

On second thought, let's do talk about it.

From a NYT July 2006 review, an excerpt from Ephron's book:

“Our faces are lies and our necks are the truth. You have to cut open a redwood tree to see how old it is, but you wouldn’t if it had a neck.”

This is true. I had a friend who was married to a plastic surgeon. He often  told her, his hand hiding his mouth because the object of his observation was near by, "There's one," he'd whisper. "A 35-year-old face, a 50-year-old neck."  

When my sister, way back in 2006, saw that Nora Ephron had a new book called "I Feel Bad About My Neck," it fed her angst about aging. But instead of rushing to read it, she wrote her reaction to the title, which revealed her own wicked sense of humor, as you shall see. (She has since read the book and recommends it, especially to women over 60 who need a laugh as they experience their own quibbles with Time.)

  Nora's Neck

      By Monette Johnson 

When I first read that Nora Ephron wrote a book called I Feel Bad about My Neck, I knew what she meant, but had to wonder how she picked her neck when there's so much else to feel bad about that's so much worse. 

I haven't yet read her book, so maybe she covers some of the other stuff too. But still. I would have thought a professional writer like Nora would  have picked something equally bad that at least could have led to a snappier title, something alliterative such as I Feel Bad about My Belly. Or better yet, I Feel Bad about My Bulging Belly or why not My Bulging Belly and My Behemoth Butt.

And I guess her whole point is what's happening as she ages, so bad bellies and butts aren't really pertinent since they happen to the young, too, although I swear my belly was as flat as the proverbial pancake until it started to get old and the older it gets, the badder it makes me feel. My butt is a whole other story.

Maybe Nora picked her neck because necks are usually naked whereas bellies and butts usually aren't, at least not for any woman over 16 or so if she's got an ounce of sense after sagging and bulging starts to set in. 

You can always attempt to camouflage bad necks with scarves, and bad butts and bellies with long, loose-fitting garments. No one is fooled by this, of course. But it makes women of a certain age feel as though spending an outrageous amount of cash on a stylish tunic and still more on a fashionable scarf is somehow worth the expense. 

Or maybe Nora focused on her neck because some of the other stuff hasn't happened to her yet. Maybe her belly is still flat, her butt nicely rounded, and her boobs firm and perky. Maybe she looks in the mirror, sees the skin sagging around the prominent neck tendons and thinks this is as bad as it's going to get. 

I've got news for Nora. It gets way worse.

On the other hand, Nora is rich. She must be after all those successful books and screenplays. Maybe she's had it all fixed. That must be it! 

Yes, she's had her belly and butt liposuctioned and her boobs lifted along with parts of her face. Or maybe she's a Jane Fonda follower and keeps it all properly in place working out 10 hours a day. 

If her neck truly is all she's got to feel bad about, she's a woman to be envied. I know women who feel bad about varicose veins, thick, ropy blue things that wind and coil around legs that are way more unattractive than scrawny necks. 

Some women even feel bad about brown spots on their hands; this is probably because they're referred to as liver spots. Calling them large freckles instead might have prevented at least a bit of angst.

Some women feel bad about thinning and/or graying hair. Of course, there's an easy fix here with wigs and hair dyes but again, no one is really fooled. 

 Others feel bad about disappearing libidos, especially now that studies have revealed hormone therapy could be deadly. 

Then there are women who feel bad about knees, hips, and shoulders that need replacement. Or hands and feet that no longer work with dexterity and without pain 

And some women feel bad just because they feel bad, dammit. So there you have it, Nora. Buck up, buy a spiffy new scarf and try not to think about what lies ahead.

Monette and me about 10 years ago. We knew that if we lifted our chins, our necks would look better. If not, then a little more wine would help.

Ditch the hair dye! Going gray into that good night

If you've lived long enough, you'll remember the Clairol ad with the tagline, Is it true blondes have more fun?  Notice that blondes is underlined in the ad. You say that word LOUDER.

I tested the verity of that line for, oh, about 50 years, and found that it was sorta true. Except maybe for the years when we were raising two boys, one of whom was born when I was 41. I had a few "not fun being blonde" years juggling work with sketchy childcare. But for the most part,  it's been all good. Did being blonde make a difference? For all those years? Probably not.  

High school and college graduation photos.

I had a lot of fun being a young blonde.

Then I just went on being blonde until I was gray,

and became gray with a golden tinge.
My sister points out these two photos make me look
better than I ever did in real life. True. 

Age 17 was my first year of blonde-from-a bottle. I was decades from denying gray, but I was in full assault against light brown. Mousey brown, as it was called. People asked me for years if it was true that "Blondes have more fun." My standard response was the shameless lie, "I don't know. I've never been anything else."

By the time age 17 turned into age 71, (how did that happen??!!) no one asked whether grays have more fun. In fact, female grays are largely ignored, except by surgeons pushing facelifts and companies preying on women's fears of aging. Magic wrinkle creams and other potions promising to turn back time are ubiquitous in our culture, which  despite the social and cultural changes that have occurred since Clairol ads, including the rise of feminism, remains skewed grotesquely toward youth and beauty., 

But somebody has to occupy the "elder" positions. Women who are only in their sixties, like most of my friends, may not quite be copping to the "elder" handle. 
  But at age almost 73, I'm acclimating to the higher elevation and at the same time being alarmed at physical transformations. What happened to my neck, for example. And my once-flattish stomach? I haven't gained weight, so what's with the rolls of blubber?

Then there's the wrinkles and sags - no cosmetic "work" has been done,  nor is any being planned. I've given up trying to make my gray (white) hair appear blond with a golden tinge, and I'm adjusting to my new and evolving position in the march from womb to worms.

In my early seventies, I am what I am.  I'm getting used to how old 70 sounds, and concentrating instead on how much I'm enjoying myself.  In the seasons of life, I'm mid-to-late fall, and so is the time during which I've been writing this post. I can't help but draw parallels. I look my age, but I don't feel old. I really don't. Not unlike the trees glowing with color being at their most proud before winter sets in.

A serene scene along the Upper Rogue River trail. In a month or so the trees will be bare and the trail thick with snow. Wintertime, folks. It's a-comin'.

A significant source of contentment and stimulation growing older is having ongoing friendships reaching back 30-40-some years. My girlfriends and I have seen one another through all kinds of crap, including ugly marriages, recalcitrant children, and life-threatening illnesses. But we've celebrated together more often than not our successes and luminous moments, many of which have occurred during shared outdoor adventures.

We're now embracing life as age continues to take its little nips. Mostly retired, each of my friends profiled briefly below demonstrates gusto for the freedom retirement offers and a life that wasn't possible during her naturally pigmented-hair-and-wrinkle-free work-centered days.

We've all suffered losses, but I know that these girlfriends, all in their sixties, accept the gathering of years, embrace their new-found freedoms, and are moving toward the great beyond with a spring in their steps. I hope to keep up! (Well, they can keep up with me; I'm the oldest.)

Apologies to wonderful friends not pictured. I included a handful of girlfriends who live in my community, go with the gusto, and who've demonstrated aging acceptance, in part,  by sticking with the gray hair, wrinkles and divets that ages delivers. No "work" to smooth the wrinkles, no nips and tucks elsewhere, and no hair dye. Just a calm going with the flow, like on the rivers we've rafted and trails we've walked so many times.

Sueji and I met when she was in her twenties and I was in my thirties. She was a white-water river guide and I was a journalist/photographer doing a story about a woman-owned rafting company with all female guides.What a trip! Our adventures continued through the decades as we were two of four women who rowed, for 17 years, on an annual all-women whitewater trip down the Wild and Scenic Rogue River. (The two others are Michele and Margaret, pictured below.) We continue to hike, socialize, confide, and enjoy our longtime friendships. Sueji is a retired community college counselor, and always has a listening ear and a shoulder to lean on.

Margaret is as sassy and fun as she looks in this photo
taken about 10 years ago when she was president
of her Rotary Club and Communications Director
at the local community college. We were both
journalists and worked at the local newspaper
when typewriters and actual cut-and-paste was
how editing was done. She says she's had more
compliments on her straight gray hair than she ever
did when she dyed and permed it.

I'm not sure when Jeanne and I met, but I'm sure we
   made a quick and lasting bond 30-some years ago. She's an avid
gardener and creative cook. She's also fierce,
principled, and quick to call bullshit on
racism, misogyny and the like. Jeanne
made her living first as a cabinet maker
then as a community college instructor teaching
everything from basic living skills to
carpentry. She's a champion for women in the
trades. When I asked her about being included
in this piece, she said, "If it's about not worrying
about appearance, I'm all in." 

Michele was the first friend I made after we
moved to Southern Oregon in 1973. We were both
substitute teachers looking for kindred spirits in
our little rural town. This photo is from a few years
back, but now at 68 she still has but a wisp of gray hair.
"It's my genes," she says, "which also gave me migraines
and breast cancer." She's a 19-year survivor. Michele joined
the Peace Corps in her early 60s and spent a couple
years in Swaziland. Wow. Recently, on a limited
budget in a super-tight housing market, she bought
a fixer-up with great promise. Guts and brains.
"I've learned to be comfortable in my own skin," she
says of moving into her later years. 

Denise, 68, is a yoga and art teacher, making her way in the world on her own terms. She taught me, and numerous others in her classes, that doing the splits, and many other outrageous moves, are possible no matter your age. She's my hero. I started doing yoga with her about 25 years ago, and we've gotten gray together. She never dyed her hair or even used make-up. Still, she glows and has tons of energy. She is not among those enjoying retirement, however, as her mother, age 104, remains healthy and lives with her. Denise says she's never been tempted to alter her appearance. "I am curious about how I'll look," she says. I predict she'll still be doing splits in her 100s. And her mother will break longevity records.

Me in July, au naturel. Grays really do have more fun!
Photo credit Rose Cassano.

Accepting aging

Working to Disarm Women’s Anti-Aging Demon  - A New York Times article persuading women to embrace rather than deny the inevitable. The inspiration for this post.

Camping with gray-haired girlfriends - my post about a quick get-away and some

quality bonding with longtime friends.

 - 

Pauline - another way to look at aging. Hair dye and estrogen all the way. At age 96, it 

still works for her.

Taking charge of aging with Yoga! See Denise, above. All about her yoga class and the 

people in it. Let's say it's an older demographic.

New take on marinara, time-saving tips and gardening ambivalence - UPDATED 8/26/2021

The basics for a grand marinara sauce are right here: Sun Gold, Brandywine and San Marzano tomatoes, garlic, onions and basil. Even a few Romas.

I've been making homemade marinara sauce since we started gardening lo these 40 years ago. If that sounds like a lot of years to you, believe me, it sounds even more unbelievable to me. The years fly by and blah blah blah.

So maybe I've learned a few things? Well. Maybe. If so, among the tidbits is a new revelation; when making marinara fresh from the garden, use the sweetest, ripest, and most tasty tomatoes no matter the variety. Duh!

Usually, those are not Roma types, which have been the mainstay of ALL previous marinara/tomato seasons. Every single batch! This year, it dawned on me, after searching around for new ideas for marinara, to simply use the tomatoes with the best flavor. WHAT A CONCEPT!

Our generous garden obliged with luscious Sun Gold cherry tomatoes, succulent Brandywines, and the marvelous San Marzanos. The San Marzano is a cherished Italian tomato grown in a specific soil type in a small area. We have three wild San Marzano plants, snaking their indeterminate tendrils in all directions.

Thick, rich, almost creamy marinara made mostly with San Marzano tomatoes. If you don't grow San Marzanos, as we didn't for most of our gardening years, they're also sold in cans and are reportedly excellent for making sauces.

San Marzanos define tomato goodness. They're super sweet when ripe, and meaty, meaning that they don't have a lot of seeds. They're not bomb-proof like Romas, but they have a deeper flavor. 

I was able to make one batch primarily with San Marzanos from the garden. But other batches made with mixed varieties have also been good. My stainless steel fry pan holds five quarts of whirred-up tomatoes and estimated quantities of other ingredients are based on starting out with five quarts of liquefied tomatoes.

A typical harvest. Most above are Roma types with a few San Marzanos
in the white box, and small Brandywines peeking out from below.

Guidelines for making fresh-from-the-garden marinara and time-saving tips*

If you're hunting for a recipe with precise measurements, this is not for you. If you're an adventurous cook eager to make it work with what you have, stick around. The idea is to use tomatoes in season and freeze the resulting sauce to produce wow-worthy dishes during the dark days of tasteless expensive supermarket tomatoes. (Isn't it odd that mealy tasteless tomatoes can be found in supermarkets even during tomato season?) 

I HAVE DISCOVERED THAT SOME OF THE MORE EXPENSIVE COMMERCIAL MARINARA PRODUCTS ARE ALMOST AS GOOD AS HOMEMADE.  SUCH AS FROM SONOMA WITH ❤️

* Do NOT peel the tomatoes!

Well, you can, but I NEVER do when making marinara, and no one has noticed. Peeling is time-consuming and unnecessary.

I've had enough of dipping tomatoes into boiling water and "slipping off the skins, ha ha" to last a lifetime. Done with that!

In perusing recipes online I noticed that peeling skins from tomatoes, or not, is a point of contention with purists. Let them contend! Maybe they don't have food processors or good blenders, maybe they have all the time in the world, maybe they like peeling tomatoes. But if you don't have the time or inclination, but have a kitchen device to do the trick, use it!

For years the Cuisinart food processor was my marinara friend, but recently I bought a Vitamix blender, which does an even better job of pulverizing lumps, seeds, and skins. Plus it can handle a greater volume, making for even less work.

What you'll need, more or less

• Enough dead-ripe tomatoes, preferably heritage, sweet cherry tomatoes, and/or San Marzanos, but also Romas, Celebrities, Big Boys, and other varieties, enough to make around five liquid quarts. The tomatoes must be ripe ripe ripe. About 15 pounds of fresh tomatoes.
• One large or two medium onions, preferably not sweet, chopped
• Six to eight large garlic cloves, or more, chopped
• Salt to taste
• Generous handful of fresh basil to add late 
• Dried blend of Italian herbs (not herbs that have been languishing in your cupboard for 10 years, but recently purchased or dried by you. The fresher the better.)
• Olive oil to saute onions, garlic, and herbs, but not the fresh basil
• 4-oz can of organic tomato paste if you choose to reduce cooking time

Onion, garlic, Italian herbs. Saute before

 adding blended tomatoes.  

SKIP IT! THIS IS A WORTHLESS STEP

Seasoning your sauce

There's also a camp that goes super simple using canned tomatoes, preferably San Marzanos, maybe a bit of onion and/or garlic, and a sprig or two of fresh basil. The basil is added late to the party, and is dragged through the sauce to extract flavor.

Maybe they do this in Italy. Doesn't work for me. I'm good with fresh basil, without stems, added late, but just leave it in the sauce.

Depending upon what's in the larder or the garden, I may add, along with ingredients listed above:

• chopped sweet peppers 
• chopped hot peppers, just a kick for back flavor
• garlic chili or serrano sauce, a Tbsp or so
• crushed fennel seed (love this flavor in marinara) 
• a sprig of fresh rosemary (remove after cooking) 

Directions

First prepare the onions, garlic, and herbs, and lightly brown them in olive oil in the same pan you'll use to cook your sauce.* Browning, according to numerous sources, adds depth of flavor whether you're making soup, gravy, or sauces.  OK TO SKIP THE BROWNING 

Then rinse, core, and cut in half the tomatoes before whirring up in a food processor or blender, about 15 pounds in batches. You should have enough liquid tomatoes to fill a five-quart heavy metal pan, preferably a stainless steel skillet. A soup pot may be used instead, but it takes longer for evaporation to produce a rich thick sauce.

Simmer for 3-4 hours until the volume has been reduced to roughly half. A 4-ounce can of organic tomato paste hastens the process, in case you're planning marinara sauce for dinner. 

More - if you're interested in my mental state, plus links to earlier garden-fresh recipes 

If you've read earlier posts, you know I have a continuing struggle with gardening, trying to cut back so we're not tied down. Trying to get a grip on the reality of being retirees and getting older every minute, and not needing all this food and work—spending hours in the kitchen chopping, blending, and trimming to can, freeze or dry the tons of stuff that lands in the kitchen. No no no!

THIS SOUNDS EXACTLY LIKE WHAT I WAS THINKING THIS MORNING. 

But then there are the other parts. The tender parts. The pleasure, during the drab winter days, or even spring, while tomatoes are still a dream, of grabbing a bag of frozen tomato deliciousness and turning it into an easy feast. STILL TRUE.

The spring asparagus feasts. The blueberries all winter. The onions and garlic hanging in the PUMPHOUSE IN THE GARAGE.  

And also the garden immersion experience, which occasionally transports me into the sweet world of birdsong, bees, and butterflies. The wild randomness of volunteer sunflowers, cosmos, clover, spearmint, and dill make a fragrant disorder that somehow creates order in my life. Even the work - the tomato harvesting, the weeding, the flower deadheading - is a methodical Zen practice where my hands and body do the work but my attention is elsewhere. Floating.  

I AM STILL TALKING MYSELF INTO IT!

I can lose myself writing (once I'm at the computer and get started) but also in gardening chores, which need to be done. How can I give this up? How can I not? 

There is a time, turn, turn, turn, you know the Pete Seeger song made famous by the Byrds?  One of my favorites.

To everything - turn, turn, turn There is a season - turn, turn, turn. And a time to every purpose under heaven.A time to be born, a time to die. A time to plant, a time to reap. A time to kill, a time to heal. A time to laugh, a time to weep.

Now. Which way to turn, turn, turn?

I loved being in the messy volunteer garden recently, with the wildfire smoke rendering breathing unpleasant but whose eerie light heightened colors. The garden is a reliable rest and release valve, a place of comfort at being alive. Why do I sometimes resent it?

SIGH. PK AND I ARE STILL TALKING TO OURSELVES AND EACH OTHER ABOUT SERIOUSLY CURTAILING GARDENING.  NOT GIVING IT UP ENTIRELY, BUT NEXT YEAR RATHER THAN 13 TOMATO PLANTS WE'LL HAVE 3 OR 4. ZUCCHINI - 1, WE ARE, I BELIEVE, MOVING CLOSER TO THE REALITY OF TURN, TURN, TURN. A TIME TO PLANT A TIME TO REAP. OR NOT.

Earlier posts about feasting from the garden

Our go-to salsa recipe - We keep returning to this one, cutting back on the black beans

Tomato Love Casserole - Too good!

Rich, thick homemade marinara sauce - this precedes the recipe above, but is still good, using Roma tomatoes.

Eggplant Parmesan with Low-Carb notes - I went through a serious low-carb period and posted lots of recipes. If you'd like to see some, type "low-carb" into the Search box on the upper lefthand corner of the page.  Warning: some of the older posts have lost their photos. No idea why. 

Ratatouille with Rosemary - Roasted, not fried. 

spaghetti squash lasagna is here - Our spaghetti squash crop failed this year, but half a squash is all that's needed for this and most recipes. I hear they have spaghetti squash down at the Farmer's Market.

Gal-camping get-away to Lemolo Lake, OR

Girlfriends are happy to be at Lemolo Falls, via a 1.5-mile steep trail 
at the end of an off-the-beaten track 4WD road. 
Photo credit - Margaret Bradford

You notice I didn't claim that my girlfriends and I were glamping, which has, I think, taken on a commercial twist. But the term still includes excursions in amped-up vintage trailers with lively paint jobs, coquettish decor, and enthusiastic owners, mostly female.

That's not us. Instead I'm talking about women friends who own plain vanilla RVs, most often with a man, but who are capable of handling said RV without the man. And also, they occasionally want to get the H out of Dodge with their girlfriends. Hence our three-day getaway to one of Southern Oregon's most iconic areas - the North Umpqua River corridor along highway 138.
Ten waterfalls. Thirteen public campgrounds. Numerous trails. Beauty abounds.

Our camp was close to Lake Lemolo. 

Lemolo Lake in the early morning, steam rising from lake water that's warmer than the air. Mt. Thielsen is reflected. Crater Lake is close by. A few hours later, this view was obscured by wildfire smoke.

Just a few miles from Lemolo Lake is a short easy trail to Warm Springs Falls.

The way we roll has nothing to do with glamour but is a giant step up from tent camping. We're done with that! (Except for two of the seven women on this trip who still backpack) Our group included two ride-alongs, one who was new to camping, and one who wasn't, but she's done plenty without a man, including raising a musical man-child with dreads and a lion's heart.

We all have petite rigs. Gail pulls a Casita and Margaret an ECON trailer, a bit more commodious with a 3-foot pullout, but still smallish. Jeanne drives a 4WD truck with a cozy pick-up camper. Sueji pilots an older Pleasure Way van and I enjoy road tripping in a 2008 Roadtrek Agile van.

Nothing wrong with a little wine on a before-dinner hike around the lake, is there? 

Most of us are in an extended group of friends-for-decades who are aging together. We've all turned gray. What a trip! We've seen one another through the harried childrearing and work years and slogged together through menopause. We're now bounding into the last third of life, where friendships are more nourishing than ever. And the view from our backyards is always beautiful.

Lots of gray hair here, but not an "old lady" in the bunch. Spirited? Yes. Even feisty.

Gail is the only one of us who has taken a solo RV trip. We won't get into detail about that episode, but getting away by herself was just what she needed.

And our recent trip together was what we all needed, in one way or another. Sometimes it isn't just getting into the outdoors, but who you're with when you go there.

We caravaned about 100 miles from our Southern Oregon homes to Lemolo Lake, not far from Crater Lake. What did we do besides hike to waterfalls and around the lake? Talked a lot about life changes, ate voluptuous salads and allowed ourselves ginger bars and thin slices of coffeecake dripping with icing. We drank wine and a tad bit too much vodka.

We did not spend even one-second man-bashing. Of a certain age, between 62 and 72, we explored the new reality we're all facing in different stages. (Sorry, Paula. You might be younger.)

I'd never seen this butterfly, but Jeanne knew
 its name immediately -  a mourning cloak.

One camper's beloved husband died in March, a fresh wound that we know could be ours. Or our mate's. We all know people who are gravely ill or dying, including parents. We know, we know.

One thing we reaffirmed.  Life is bitter-sweet. Grab every moment and run for the hills, the ocean, the rivers, the woods, and the wild places while you still can.

And don't forget to spend quality time with your friends.

If you want to visit the Lemolo Lake area

Here's a guide to all the North Umpqua River waterfalls along Highway 138.  Including ones accessed via Lemolo Lake. Note that the directions for Lemolo Falls do not lead to the view-from-the-bottom as my photo above depicts. It's a lot easier to reach the trailhead described. But if you want to see the falls from below (way better) check with the resort for directions and condition of the 4WD road. Muddy may not be good. Otherwise, no problem except clearance.

I'll leave you with a photo of a close-by waterfall we'd all seen before and didn't visit this time. 

Even without a kayaker in it, I think Toketee Falls
is the most spectacular of the North Umpqua's waterfalls.
That is son Chris Korbulic in 2011. 

An addendum: I got this in an "Only in Oregon" email today and just had to add the link.

HIGHWAY OF WATERFALLS

Big Bend National Park. Sigh.

An expansive view from one of Big Bend National Park's many tread-worthy hiking trails. Hmm. Wonder how and where Trump's wall would fit in here? Big Bend borders Mexico.

I added a new national park to my LOVE list during our spring 2017 SW road trip -  Big Bend in the far southwestern reaches of Texas. I'd visited there in what seems another lifetime, my twenties, long before the Internet provided easy access to everything you need to know before you go anywhere, do anything.

In the 1970s I knew nothing, about the park, took one short, steep, HOT walk and was on my way. I had no idea what I was missing!

PK and I, bolstered with online advice, were revved up for Big Bend, having read how great it is and also how the park's precious campsites, both in established areas and in dispersed sites, are hard to come by during peak seasons, one of which is early spring. Reservations are possible, but we didn't have any.  If you're a member of the didn't-plan-worth-crap club, of which I am president, you would be subject to the first-come, first-served method of securing a campsite.

This involves getting up early and maybe waiting in line, as we've endured at national parks elsewhere. We were up before 7 a.m. at Marfa, (see post) where we'd spent the previous night (don't laugh, that's early for us) and then on to Marathon, the small town closest to the park's Panther Junction headquarters 69 miles south.

At Panther Junction we learned that all the coveted backcountry sites were booked out for four days  They may not have worked for us anyway as they're all on gravel roads, many requiring 4WD, which we lack. They were booked four days out. 

A surprise about Big Bend NP is that it encompasses an entire mountain range. The Chisos Mountains provide much of the park's stunning scenery - a green island in a desert sea, according to park literature. The park is huge, 1,252 square miles, and the Rio Grande forms a 118-mile border between Texas and Mexican states. We headed to the campground at 5,401 ft elevation, fingers crossed that a first-come, first-served site would be available. 

We were in luck! An incredibly cheerful volunteer campground host greeted us the moment we arrived and  guided us to one of the remaining sites, which happened to be among our best ever. The view was spectacular, and because we were on the bottom tier of the hillside campground and we had only a couple neighbors. If you want to camp at Chisos Basin, and can score a reservation, ask for site 60 or 59. Sixty is the BEST. (Somebody beat us to it) No complaints! Neither would work for large RVs. Our Roadtrek Agile is 19 feet long.

A Torrey yucca decorated our camp area, which was also a great birding spot. Another bonus of this campground is that it is way cooler than at lower elevations. While campers at the popular Cottonwood Campground were enduring temps in the 90s, we were basking in the mid-70s. Spring and fall are the best times to visit. Low elevation camps are closed in summer when temperatures on the ground can reach 180 degrees! Instant death!

The road into the Chisos Basin provides a campground overview and a look at the Window, that deep V between mountains. The Window is a popular hiking destination, and we found out why.

The Window at sunset viewed with a telephoto lens close to our camp.The trail leads to the point of the V. 

Here's PK at The Window's V. The drop-off is a pour

over for flash floods and is scary high. The path

has been polished slick by hiking  boots. We did not
go any closer fearing death or inconvenience from
a misstep. 

 The trail leading to The Window is equipped with carefully carved or constructed
 stairs. PK, in his trendy khaki outfit, is camouflaged. 

Rocks I loved.

  And more rocks. The park's geology has been described as a 

geologists' paradise due to all the exposed rock strata. According 

  to park literature, the abundance, diversity and complexity of rock

outcrops is "staggering." For me, their beauty is staggering.

Wildflowers, including numerous cacti varieties, were around every bend in the trail and along roadsides at all park elevations.

Claret cup cactus.

Prickly pear cacti were flagrant show-offs.

A century plant, which actually lives about 30 years, blooms once and dies.
We were fortunate to see this grand specimen.

Ocotillos made art all over the areas we explored.

This jay appears to be giving us the stink eye. Dozens of jays and other birds and butterflies delighted us en route to The Window. The park attracts around 450 bird species throughout the year. 

One of hundreds of unidentified butterflies along The Window trail.

Santa Elena Canyon of the Rio Grande dwarfs  a
kayaker. The canyon is a stopping point for tour

buses and one was disgorging tourists when we pulled in. The short 

hike up the canyon has a few steep spots. Combined
with the 90+ degree heat, it was a challenge to
some of the elderly sightseers. Later an ambulance
was called to the canyon to rescue someone who'd
collapsed on the trail. Because of heat at lower elevations,
we confined most of our hiking to the Chisos Basin. 

We hiked a couple other trails out of the Chisos Basin, in addition to The Window, and weren't necessarily smart about it. The popular Lost Mine Trail, on the road to the Chisos Basin campground, is only a few miles long. We intended to hike it in the morning, but by 9 a.m. the parking lot was full. Later, when we decided to give it a try, much of it was in the sun and even at high elevation, it was  bloody hot.  It's steep, rocky, and strenuous. It was worth the effort for the panoramas at the top, but we wish we'd had an earlier, cooler start.

The bottom line about Big Bend National Park is that
it's well worth your time and energy to explore. We stayed but three nights, having reservations and obligations down the road, but I understand how many other visitors tromp the trails and ride the roads for a week or more.

Big Bend National Park has a comprehensive website.

Earlier posts about Spring Road trip 2017

Marfa, TX, a lesson in road-trip planning

Arizona, a zone of its own

Joshua Tree National Park  

Start it UP! - SW Road Trip Spring 2017