Serendipity then and now

Serendipity officially means accidental good fortune. When I started this post, I intended to write about January gardening. That took me, somehow, to Africa and travel, and then to discontent with my ordinary life and then to childrearing, marriage, and the march of time. And back again. You'll find no gardening here.

 Serendipity—a pleasurable outcome of  brain exploration translated to fingers on the keyboard.  Writing.

 Ever since returning from Africa in mid-October, I've been discontented with ordinary life. No one is cooking for me. No one is driving me around. No one is concerned minute-to-minute with my entertainment. (Thank you, Kara Blackmore and TIA.) There are no giraffes, elephants, lions, gorillas, rhinos, impalas, springboks, cape buffalos, chimps, hippos, exotic birds or even crocodiles parading or posing for my enjoyment.

Oops. Forgot to mention zebras, who seemed eager to have their picture taken.

There's also a terrible absence of drifts of exotic flowers, and forests consisting of what look like giant houseplants. 

Pincushion proteas, indigenous to the Kirstenbosch National Botanical Garden in Cape Town, South Africa, is among 7,000 species thriving in one of the world's great botanic gardens. We spent nearly four hours exploring the eye-blasting magic at the foot of the famous Table Mountain.

Sometimes in Uganda or in South Africa—which I haven't blogged about yet —you can't decide where to look. There's so much to see, so much to do. And the people. Suffice it to say that ordinary life for most Ugandans is different from mine. Their realities make me embarrassed about the luxuries of my privileged never-had-to-think-about-food-or-water ordinary blue-eyed life. Also makes me ponder, what do we really need?

This beautiful Ugandan teenager is making her fifth one-mile round trip from her home to the Nile River balancing 50 pounds of water, which must be boiled at least an hour to be potable. Note that her balance is so good the jerry can lacks a plug. Such are the skills necessary for survival. 

Back in rural Southern Oregon in the dead of winter, I am having to work at being delighted, excited, awed or inspired, as if those are the states-of-being I expect or, more importantly, deserve. That's what Africa did to me. I got accustomed to daily delight, excitement, awe and inspiration. I can tell you, it's not a bad way to live.

Except for a couple spectacular days at the Oregon coast in mid-December, (photos here), dullsville is where I'm at now.  Usually, when returning from a "holiday" as vacations are called in South Africa, I am ready to be home. This time, not. I'm restless, resurrecting that irresistible urge to be on the move that spurred me back in the early 1970s, before babies and jobs and house payments tethered us.

 I say "us" because I've been partners with the same man for going on 41 years. We have our own early histories, but at this point, our shared time predominates. We've been together a couple decades longer than the ages we were when we met. Who knows when you commit to someone that this can happen? If you're lucky, it does.

In Mexico 2006

When our first child arrived in 1977, the itchy feet gave way to nesting and to kid-loving to the center of my being and back. The reason most parents can put up with sleepless nights and toddlers screaming in the grocery store, is that kid-love consumes them.

Chris, left, and Quinn Korbulic, 1999

I love our adult sons, but not as viscerally as when they were babies, toddlers, young children, and even despicable (sometimes) teenagers. They're cut loose and my oh my, who they have become pleases me so. How I adore them still. We won't even get into the grandchildren. Another time.

Back in the day, and besotted with kid-love, I was content with camping and rafting and the occasional two-week summer vacation along with the pleasure and pain of raising children, sustaining a marriage, developing a writing/editing career, and getting acquainted with the Earth in our backyard: the garden, the Rogue River and environs.

I often told myself, and others who would listen, that there's more than one way to travel. Explore your life and journey philosophically, if you can't get out there into the world geography. Having two kids, two jobs, little money, and two or three weeks vacation per annum, I embraced the philosophy route. Time flew. It flapped its wings and dive bombed year after year, pecking me on the head, "You're another year older!"

Now time is pecking me in the eyes, dammit. Get away! Slow the hell down!

Still, I don't regret any of it. I would never give up having raised our sons because both are gifts that keep on giving. And life has come full circle with me being the touchstone for my 98-year-old mom who is in assisted living one mile away.

However. I'm now thinking ours would be a great place to be coming back to. Someday. In the meantime, I will continue to appreciate the small things, and large, that have made this piece of ground home for more than 40 years. It won't be long before we'll be on road longterm and so glad to have a piece of the Earth to settle back into, as birds returning from migration.

Ironically, as I was working on this post, I excavated, from the bottom of a trunk, a diary from 1972. Here's something I wrote August 24 of that year... I was 28 years old.

Driving over the Big Horn Mountains. Stoned. Looking at cows through binoculars and talking about time. A little poem:  

I'll travel til there's no wind left in my soul. Then I'll be old. 

Well, now I AM old, so I'll say the same thing today except for one word:

I'll travel til there's no wind left in my soul.

 Then I'll be dead. 

Leeks in all their glory in our garden. What you can't see or hear are the bees. The bees. Hundreds of bees. Maybe as many bees as there are in all of Africa. Right in my own backyard. Just in case.

Rafting Uganda's White Nile - Class V

The first rapid was a Class 5 with a tricky entrance to a 12-foot waterfall. I'm in the yellow helmet, and PK is directly on my left. Kara Blackmore, our unofficial tour guide, is in the back in front of Josh, the amazing local river guide. In addition to Josh, we three were the only people on this raft with any previous rafting experience. Which goes to show, with a skilled guide, anybody can do this!! 

We knew from the get-go that, as parents of Chris Korbulic, we'd have no excuse, other than cowardice, for not jumping into a paddle raft for a Class 5 commercial trip on the White Nile near Jinja, Uganda. (For the uninitiated, Class 5 means that flipping is likely.) Not that cowardice wasn't a factor. PK had sorta-kinda committed, and I was "maybe" but then PK, looking at the unfavorable weather forecast, mentioned to Kara, "If it's raining, I probably won't go."

Kara, Chris' good friend and the volunteer tour guide who'd arranged 12 days in Uganda for us, was stunned. "What? You'll man up and go!" she insisted. "What's a little rain?"  

Indeed. What's a little rain? I "womaned" up and signed on as well. 

Our outfitter, Nile River Explorers, picked us up close to our lodging way too early in the morning, and after about a half-hour open-air bus ride later, we were greeted at the company's staging area with a hearty breakfast of Rolex, fruit, coffee, and various carbohydrates. What's a Rolex? A culinary discovery! I know you don't click on many links, but the Rolex link is about more than the Rolex. It's also about Ugandan street life and attitude. There we were outfitted with life jackets, helmets and paddles.  Another 40-minute drive and we were at the put-in.

The assembled paddle rafters getting the low-down on how to navigate the rapids. PK and I agreed it was the most thorough river safety briefing we'd ever heard. Then we were instructed to team up with people of like mind. Do you want to flip or not? NOT. We sorted into a raft of Australians, a family with no river experience who were not too fit looking. Still, PK and I were by far the oldest people in the entire group. I guess our elderly status is getting to be a badge of honor, because on this raft, we were, along with Kara, also the fittest. Not counting the guide, Josh, of course, in his own class of rippled readiness. He was ejected once and he sprang back into the raft as if he'd been propelled by an underwater cannon.

This is the first rapid,  a true Class 5. See that red object toward the top of the photo? That's a raft, and behind it is flat water where each of the five rafts was required to flip, then everybody aboard had to help right the overturned craft. The hardest part? Getting back into the dang raft unaided.  I think Kara was the only passenger on our boat who powered  herself into the raft. The rest of us whales needed assistance. Even all-muscles PK required a tiny boost. 

After getting hung up on rocks, we entered the first rapid in perfect position.

It's starting to look bad! And feel bad! But we're in great shape.

We hit the hole head on. Nobody fell out. This all happened in a flash. These great photos were captured by a pro working with Nile River Explorers. When the trip ended, raft mates decided whether or not to join forces and purchase photo CDs and/or DVDs. 

Believe it or not, this was fun!

You can see the guide powering with his one little paddle to keep the raft straight and we came out of the hole in great shape. I guess everybody swallowed some Nile River, but were none the worse.

The young woman behind me, unfortunately, lost a toenail . She unloaded onto the safety raft, the one with the blue kayak, where she spent the rest of the day with her bleeding and bandaged foot elevated. I think she was relieved to be in the safety raft. She blanched at the safety talk above this rapid about what to do, if the raft should flip and you get sucked into a downward spiral. What you do is bring your knees to your chest and wait to pop up to to the surface. The message: you are not in control here.

The river trip was 15.5 miles, (25 kilometers) long, but it didn't seem that far. Seven rapids, Class 3-4, followed the first, which was the most challenging. We had lots of time to float and enjoy the scenery and the big waves. Lunch on board was the most delicious-ever giant pineapples cut with a few deft machete strokes and passed to passengers in thick sticky wedges. We also enjoyed cookie-type treats labeled as "Glucose." Well, that's honesty in packaging.

This may have been the rapid where the guide was jettisoned. But he quickly reclaimed the helm.

What?! Kara is going overboard.

As a frequent river-runner, she claims that the final rapid of this trip, the Nile Special, is best enjoyed when you're one with the river. Maybe...next time? Incidentally, Nile Special is also a popular Ugandan beer, which was offered in abundance at the end of this trip along with a delicious buffet.

By the way, our boat never flipped, but other boat upsets were frequent. I don't know whether we got lucky with our guide, or if the other, equally skilled guides, dropped into holes sideways on purpose.  Before one especially tricky rapid,which Josh said was better left unexplored via immersion, he gave explicit directions regarding the "ball -up to avoid getting sucked to the bottom" direction but ended his pre-rapid instructions with this: Be ready for anything. Shit happens. That seems to me a good advice for life in general.

Addendum: A dam that would drown this beautiful whitewater section of the Nile River is in the works, but is not a done deal. The dam would destroy the tourist industry in Jinja, whose main tourist draw is the river and various activities associated with it—especially the rafting and kayaking parts. It makes me sick to think that the wonderful Ugandans we met on this trip (as guides and the photographer, mostly) would be out of jobs. This link describes the situation, and introduces readers to some of the people whose lives have been transformed by the opportunities afforded by their river jobs. 

Thanksgiving Leftovers-Time Spinning Reckless

This year our Thanksgiving group gathered near Squaw Valley at Lake Tahoe.
The weather was glorious, and we spent most of one day at this beach. Some even took a dip. 

Maybe this post title should be "Thanksgiving Afterglow" or "Thanksgiving Rocks" or something other than what "Thanksgiving Leftovers" connotes. True, I will soon get to an easy breezy super-good low-carb leftover turkey recipe.

But the big story, for me, is that the Thanksgiving celebration PK and I share annually with family, dear friends, and, always, a few newcomers, provides a lasting burst of energy and hope. Leftovers, so to speak. 

Leftovers, that unlike turkey, which disappears into soups, casseroles, sandwiches within a week, will continue forever. How could I ever forget this picture of grandson Noah "smiling" for the camera with his uncle Chris  trying to match his enthusiasm? And so many other great moments.

Here we are, recovered from Thanksgiving-feast comas and ready to play beach games. 

After five years, our cross-generational Thanksgiving group has grown to 20+, a number we hold steady as the desire to include others, and the reality that too many would complicate our accommodation requirements and the intimacy that's central to the whole deal, makes us curb our enthusiasm.

Renting a place to accommodate 20 -25 is a challenge. Having a great time with that number, however, is no problem. We long ago progressed beyond the one-day celebration and are now up to three to five days. Heavy feasting. Immoderate wine drinking. Tireless dancing. Animated conversation. Hiking. Spirited ping pong. A horseshoe-like game called washoes. And whatever outdoor activities the weather or terrain allows. All make for a colorful whirl of time spinning, reckless, on fast forward. 

This annual gathering, and also friendships and traditional celebrations that have gone before, remind me of what matters: honesty, friendships, old and new; family, whether blood-related or not; zest for life; traditions, both established and developing; flexibility; and maybe most important, recognizing that although the universe doesn't give a crap about you, your friends and family do.

And you care about them. Big time. What's more important than that? (Maybe zest for life, if you can manage that on your own.)

Here's a compilation of photos from this year's Thanksgiving celebration with credit to Steve Lambros and Laurie Gerloff (and me) with others from Lauren Frank, Gail Frank, Paula Stone, Chris Korbulic and Tom Landis.

The Goods

Here's that pretty dang good and super easy recipe for leftover turkey. Cooking is a shared responsibility at Thanksgiving, and PK and I were in charge of turkey this year. We brought two; one fresh, one smoked, around 19 pounds each. We ended up with mostly smoked turkey leftovers—a good thing! Because I used smoked turkey for this casserole, I didn't add any salt. If your turkey isn't brined or salty, you may need to add a little punch.
All ingredients are leftovers. I brought the artichoke/jalapeno dip and raw broccoli for appetizers that didn't get used. As usual, we had way too much food despite our pledge to go light. Ha! For a similar result, you could add YOUR leftovers and tie it all together with a pre-made sauce or dip, such as the artichoke jalapeno concoction. 

Turkey Snap - Broccoli, Artichoke/Jalapeno Turkey Casserole
Serves four. Bake in a 9X13 casserole at 350 for 30-35 minutes to bake. FIVE MINUTE prep.
Ingredients

• 2 (approximate) cups Costco's Stonemill Kitchen's artichoke jalapeno dip (1 carb for 2 TBSP), enough to cover the casserole bottom.
• Sliced cooked turkey, enough to cover the dip. Turkey may be smoked or roasted. I used smoked. HAM could be substituted.
• 2-3 cups raw broccoli florets, cut into bite-sized pieces. (Save time. Buy precut and trimmed in a bag.) 
• 3/4 cup chopped onion
• Grated cheese, cheddar, Parmesan, or whatever you have on hand, enough to spread on top of the casserole.
• Salt and pepper to taste. Note: If you use smoked turkey or ham, additional salt could be overkill. 

Directions

1. Preheat the oven to 350.
2. Spread enough artichoke jalapeno dip in the bottom of the casserole dish to cover it with 1/4 to 1/3 inch.
3. Arrange sliced turkey or ham generously atop the dip. 
4. Mix remaining dip with the raw broccoli and diced onions. The mixture should be visibly covered with the dip, but not thickly. If the mixture seems too dry, and you ran out of the dip, add mayo. Too little is better than too much.
5. Spread the broccoli/dip mix atop the turkey slices.
6. Cover with foil and bake for 25 minutes.
7. Remove from oven and uncover. Top with grated cheese and pop back into the oven for 5-7 minutes. Remove when cheese is melted, and let rest for a few minutes before serving.  

Note: The broccoli will still be al dente after 25 minutes. If you like broccoli more tender, give the covered casserole another 10 minutes in the oven before melting the cheese. 

Ordinary Day, Ordinary Life

January 19, 2012
Awake to NPR's Morning Edition, as usual, around 6:30 a.m. More blah blah blah about the revolting GOP. Good to learn Perry has finally done something smart: drop out before another humiliating debate. Doze. Radio quits at 7:20 a.m. signaling it's time to rise.

Check weight. Moderate low-carb regime makes for about one pound a week loss with little sacrifice. Make decaf. Can't handle leaded. Brew as usual, freshly ground, boiling water passing through a filter into insulated cup. Put teapot on for PK.

Check news online. Historic storm floods, ices, buries-in-snow Washington, parts of Oregon. Look out window. See small-scale flooding in orchard. Rain falling.

 Garden trenches are moats  every winter during prolonged and/or heavy rains.
No big deal. But is problem if crops are planted out there. Only garlic this year.

Marooned trailer will be there for a few months.

Prepare low-carb breakfast. Drag out frozen blackberries. Dump handful into bowl. Microwave on high one minute. Mix in Greek yogurt and a couple shakes of stevia. Top with homemade low-carb flax granola. (recipe below) Check Facebook while eating. See that Chris has survived yet another death-defying day in Zambia. Or Zimbabwe? Somewhere in Africa. Lose track.

Gear up mentally for yoga.  Meet friend in town to carpool to the funky Wimer Grange 8 miles into the countryside where Shanti holds forth Tuesday and Thursday mornings. Not like the yoga person parodied in this viral video. Instead she says: You think this yoga shit is easy? Ha! (smirks)
Her students pant, perspire, suffer. Return for more.

Limp home. Change sweaty top for Rotary meeting, but don't change all-purpose black stretch pants, perfect morning through evening—dancing, dining. hiking, yoga. Keep it simple with limited wardrobe.

Check solarium plant life. Geranium lookin' good.

Check greens in cold frame. Need thinning soon. 

Talk with friend at Rotary who has taken on clients I bid adieu to during past seven months of my client-by-client retirement process. After Rotary, she meets with my former (and favorite) long-term client to plan annual publication. Sigh. Smile.

Pick up materials for volunteer gig on behalf of WCST this weekend. Confer with organizer about how to get stuff to event in rain.

Visit 96-year-old mother, LaVone, who, two days ago learned her 92-year-old sister had died, and young pastor Evan from the Missouri Synod Lutheran Church, who will help her through grief and into acceptance of the inevitable. Feel warm and good. Better than meeting with former client.

Spy on PK, who is scooting a wood stove into position
in his garage/shop. Retired four years. Always busy.

Get email from daughter-in-law. Reno is on fire again - five square miles.
A young man they know lost his wife soon after childbirth, left hospital alone, with infant son. Recall daughter-in-law's dicey birthing experience. Happy ending, but without excellent intervention, could have been tragic. Feel warm about her, son Quinn, grandson Noah. Tear-up.

Cook low-carb dinner: Thick pork chops in garlic/onion/vermouth/port/Creole mustard/cream sauce; steamed cauliflower with butter; green salad with chopped cabbage, peppers, avocados. Fried potatoes for PK. No suffering with low carb. But no potatoes, either.
Keep thinking about grieving young father and motherless child.

Best of the day to come, continue reading Cutting for Stone in cozy bed nest.

Change-of-season madness

Yesterday, for the first time in months, I awoke to the sharp smell of the gas stove firing up,
warming the kitchen and heating the tea water. Dang. Summer's gone!

Given the date, it shouldn't be a surprise that fall crept in after just a few days' warning. Sunflowers, cosmos, and cornstalks have been leaning toward the compost, longing, I think, for restful rotting after a summer of boisterous growth and the recent marauding of feasting birds. The sweet smell of rain has been in the air, leaves have crackled underfoot, and honking geese have swirled noisily overhead. What a great elongated summer we've enjoyed! But still. saying goodbye to the garden and fresh food in magnificent abundance is sad, as is depositing into the memory bank soft summer air and lazy barbecues. Sigh.

 Outside, fog drapes across the hills like a swath of cotton batting, cooling the forest and fields and settling in for the long winter ahead. Variations of this scene will be evident beyond the garden for the next six months. Eeek. It'll get a lot wetter and colder and the vegetation in the foreground will soon disappear into compost. Not a bad thing to become, really.

I spent yesterday holed up in the kitchen with tomatoes and peppers, onions and herbs, making salsas and marinara sauces.

Marinara sauce bubbling on the stove.  Wow. It makes the heart race!

On the brighter side, at the kitchen counter son Chris tapped away on his cranky computer and plotted logistics for his next adventure. He's home for a few days after returning from Brazil, where he does crazy stuff like this. Don't be deterred by a foreign language—Portuguese. The link is to a trailer for a popular Brazilian adventure/reality series in which Chris is one of three "stars." He's headed back to Africa soon, then back to Brazil.  His is not at all an ordinary life!

Back to my world, currently dominated by tomatoes. Not too exciting, but I will be so jazzed this winter opening jars of salsa or thawing marinara sauces for quick dinners.  Maybe I'd rather go to the Congo with Chris?
Hmmm.  I don't think so.

Salsa!  And it only took ALL DAY to make!
But we also prepared a dozen quarts of sauces for the freezer thus justifying an entire day in the kitchen.

Today's garden take could be the last as frost is predicted tonight. The green beans, cucumbers, basil, and peppers can't tolerate frost, and the giant zucchini leaves will blacken overnight. So sad.

I love gardening and cooking and all the rest of my little Southern Oregon reality show. It's just that when Chris alights for a few days, I become restless and wondering. What if I had diverted 40-some years ago from the well-beaten path into middle-class life? What if I had followed my heart into travel and adventure? And then I worry, what if Chris doesn't do this?  What if he finds himself 20 years from now stranded on a bridge between his youth and an unsustainable level of risk-taking?
I'm not too worried. Just wallowing in the usual over-protective mama kind of crap. He'll be fine. Won't he?

All those veggies I harvested today are sitting in the kitchen awaiting attention, as are several boxes of tomatoes on the back porch. Should I dehydrate some, or just stick them in the freezer whole? More sauces, salsas? I admit I'm so ready for harvest and food preservation to be over! In a couple weeks, it will be except for apples, which are just now coming ripe out there in the wind and rain. Applesauce? Dried apples? Pies? Cobblers? Decisions, decisions.

What if like Chris, I was deciding whether to go to the Arctic or Angola—or both, plus several other possible destinations on his ever-changing schedule. It's certain that he'll provide ongoing vicarious thrills plus ample cause for maternal angst as I remain here in the cool and indifferent landscape, so recently spilling over with vegetables and berries and now so close to shutting down for the winter.

Too Many Photos!

Baby Noah displaying his outrageous independence at almost nine months.  No cuddling, please!
Just feed me and give me toys and space. And can I pull your hair?

I lost my camera the first day of our March vacation to Death Valley and other places in California and Nevada. Fortunately, I managed to keep track of it while in Reno with grand baby Noah, and fired off a shot worthy of archiving, if not for technical proficiency, at least for recording the reality of  a baby who is not at all interested in being cuddled. Grandpa Paul enjoyed the hair pulling as he provided sustenance.

This is Death Valley as seen from the gravel parking lot-type camp at Stovepipe Wells. It is my last vacation photo before my camera  disappeared.  This was also before I determined to take only photos that might mean something to me in 10 years .... or more. Or to someone else. This shot, while pleasing, would not make the cut.

This is how our bikes look hanging off the back of our little Four Wheel camper.

Exciting, right? This is what can happen when you have a camera and feel compelled to use it and SHARE the photos.

This does not make the 10-year cut, and is for demonstration only. Others may be interested in your children, your pets, your vegetables,  your toenails. But your bikes, probably not.

Traveling sans camera was a revelation. First I realized that not taking photos is a vacation in itself. How many pictures does the world need? How many do I need? Pictures of Noah and other family members have a small but appreciative audience. Pictures of Death Valley and the Sierra Mountains, however, have been well documented by photographers who are a million times more skilled and better equipped than I am. We discovered Galen Rowell in a Bishop, California gallery. Wow! It's clear that my landscape photos are not needed. I secretly like some of my own shots, but I can keep them to myself. Maybe.

What happened to my camera? I thought it was stolen, or even worse, that I had left it by the sink in the campground restroom. Paul discovered it soon after we returned home beneath the bench cushion in our cozy camper. I was disappointed, as I had already selected a replacement. My pocket Nikon Coolpix has been obsoleted over the past three (four?)years with much-upgraded compact cameras. Why I need sharper, brighter images, and even more foolproof technology, I do not know. But I want them. I would have shot hundreds of photos. I'm not kidding. I would have snapped my way through Death Valley, then captured myriad scenes along the incredibly beautiful highway 395 skirting the eastern edge of the magnificent Sierra Mountains through Lone Pine and the Alabama Hills and Bishop and Mammoth Lakes and then onto South Lake Tahoe and our fabulous day of bluebird skiing with vast, crisp, magnificent views of the lake. Post trip I would have been overwhelmed with  images, editing like crazy to decide which shots were worth salvaging. And who cares? Key question.

Of course after Paul found my camera, I gradually resumed photography, but with more retrospection. I was once a "professional", shooting to illustrate articles for small newspapers and a statewide business magazine. That was when 35mm film came in rolls of 20 or 36 frames, and you had to think and frame and anticipate to use those few shots judiciously. It was a discipline that I, for one, have almost forgotten with digital photography. Temporarily losing my camera brought me back to something I'd all but forgotten: pre-editing. Think before you shoot. So here follow some recent random photos that mean something to me, and why.

Chris, the professional photographer, and I, took turns at the magnificent cactus in  our solarium.

What Chris saw. This could be enlarged 100 X and still look great.

What I saw. Don't make it any bigger, please. 

Costa Rica—lessons from a journey south

Paul toasting our good fortune to be at Cabinas Jimenez on the Osa Peninsula in Costa Rica in December 2010. 

Note to readers: This post includes numerous links, which, if followed, could direct you toward journeys far deeper than my little excursion to Costa Rica leads you. I travel where I can, when I'm able, and in comfort. But my son's journeys are wider and deeper and challenging in every way. If you have time to follow only one link, choose the Great White Explorer. It can transport you to explorations you may not know exist in this day and age.

When I started this post long after returning from our Costa Rican respite, it was raining like hell here in Southern Oregon. February 14 shattered the 1904 rainfall  record in the Rogue Valley and interrupted weeks of balmy days when winter plantings vibrated with springness, and when we uppity Northwesterners looked toward the hideous Eastern blizzards with curiosity and said, "Oh, poor things!" But. Here's winter again.  And now I'm looking back to Costa Rica, where PK and I escaped for most of December 2010. Ahh. It was glorious. But.

We had been there only two days when our son, Chris, emailed us to say that his African kayaking expedition leader. Hendri Coetzee, had been killed by huge crocodile on an African river. Chris was two feet away, and another kayaker, Ben Stookesberry, was close by. A lengthy piece about this tragedy is the cover story in the March 2011 edition of Outside Magazine. (This is a 9-page piece profiling the amazing Hendri. It is well well worth your time. Hendri was charismatic and an outrageous adventurer. His is a riveting story, despite the tragic ending. It's almost as if he saw it coming.)
If you lose your child by a crocodile snatching, it's no more grief-making than by any other means. Car accidents. Diving mishaps. Bicycle crashes. But to us, this news was disturbing beyond belief, perhaps because we'd gotten to know Hendri though his writing on his Great White Explorer blog. The guy was an incredible writer and an extraordinary person. And partly because we felt guilty.

Hendri was taken. Chris lived, and we were grateful he did. Nearly three months later, we're still in wonder and so incredibly thankful that our son is alive and has moved on to his next adventure. Because what else could he do?

Hendri, rest in peace. Please accept the profound regrets of your companion's mother, and I know I speak for his father as well. We're grateful that Chris knew you, and know he loved you and will never forget. He takes many lessons from you. And so do we.

And so we moved on, as parents of survivors can do. (Had Chris been the crocodile's meal, we would still be muddling in a corner.) The next few weeks were a wonder of sights and sensations taking our minds off the tragedy. Two things stand out. One was our stay at a B and B called the Erupciones Inn at the base of the Arenal Volcano. The other was a lesson in letting go with good friends Catherine and Michael Wood, our Southern Oregon pals who live several months a year near Mal Pais on Costa Rica's Nicoya Peninsula.

The story: This Costa Rican dad raises Arabians. His wife runs the Erupciones Inn, a bed and breakfast at the base of Arenal Volcano. I took this photo (and more) from the patio of our modest accommodation. The little guy is two years old, and on his first "round-up-the-horses" mission with his father. Seeing this strong yet gentle parenting was somehow comforting to us, fortunate to be the parents of two incredible young men. 

The story:Here's Catherine Wood napping in her hammock on a lazy Costa Rican afternoon.  In her non Costa Rican life, she's a whirlwind. She works tirelessly for the non profit she founded, Bright Futures Foundation. But CR time is laid back. She reads. She refreshes. She and Michael play dominoes and entertain friends. They get plenty of hammock time. She's younger than me, and I have NEVER achieved the level of relaxation that she demonstrated.
There's no reason not to enjoy some down time, and so I am going to learn to do it!
Thank you, Woods, for the life lesson, and for being such good friends.
More photos from Costa Rica. 

A mother's nightmare; a mother's dream

Chris' self portrait taken in the garden in late December 2010 is symbolic. This is his home, and he loves it. But he's a ghost here, always en route to a new adventure. 

 I read about your son--truly a mother's nightmare. I was wondering how you restrain yourself from locking him in his room until I read the follow-up story about how much he loves what he does. I'm glad he is home for a bit--I'm sure you are too.

The email message above arrived yesterday and made me study my wonderfully alive and well son sitting at his computer editing his photos from Africa. What happened in Africa in early December was a "mother's nightmare," and a father's and a family's nightmare as well. A horrific tragedy occurred, and Chris could have been the victim as easily as the man who died. 

If you're reading this, you likely know that Chris was one of three kayakers on an expedition that entailed paddling rivers never before navigated in the heart of Africa—the Democratic Republic of Congo. They successfully ran incredibly challenging whitewater, something they've done all over the world. They know how to measure a rapid's or a waterfall's risk and weigh the consequences of error. They can walk away, and they often do. But a giant crocodile exploded from the Lukuga River, grabbed one man by the shoulder and capsized his kayak. Hendri Coetzee was gone. 
Chris and his companion, Ben Stookesberry, were stunned and horrified. There was nothing they could do for Hendri, so they paddled furiously and pulled out of the river at a village less than a kilometer downstream. They told villagers the tragic story and asked for help looking for Hendri. But the villagers, who were otherwise helpful, refused to enter the river. The croc, estimated at 15-feet long, had already killed nine people in recent years. 

The next day, vacationing in Costa Rica, PK and I got an email from Chris informing us of what had transpired. Our first thought, "Thank God it wasn't Chris!" Then guilt  because somehow that equates to we're glad it was the other guy. But that's not true. We're deeply sorry that anyone died this way. Our hearts go out to Hendri's family and friends. I  regret never getting to meet such an incredible young man, and am grateful that Chris was able to benefit from Hendri's energy, experience, and insights.

Media frenzy ensued. 
An AP  quote, via email,  from PK and me in Costa Rica:
All of us with loved ones engaged in extreme risk as a lifestyle and vocation live in dread of getting bad news, but at the same time we are wildly proud of our sons for their courage and determination to be explorers in a time when most people think terrestrial, social, and environmental exploration is over. We didn't know Hendri, but will miss his presence on earth and in the life of our son.
Amen to that. But what about that impulse to "lock him in his room?"
Last spring I called Chris as I was obsessing about his plans to run a big, bad waterfall. "Why do you have to do this," I asked. "What's the point?"
The point was he wanted to do it, he said. And, he added, I was in greater danger driving than he was running waterfalls that he had carefully measured himself against. Ten minutes later,  on a deserted street in our quiet little Oregon town, a man had a heart attack while driving and plowed into the back of the vehicle I'd exited about a minute earlier.  My car was totaled, spun around and pointed the other direction. The errant driver died. So could have I. 
Ok, Chris, I believe you. Perhaps risk is relative, and the greatest danger is mediocrity, of playing it safe, of avoiding risk. (says she with a blog entitled Ordinary Life!) Well, I have to tell you. One of life's greatest risks—and joys—is having children. You raise someone as far as you're able, then they're launched and all you can do is watch and hope. Loving someone as deeply as most parents love their children is a huge and unavoidable vulnerability. Loving children is a exploration into the depths and heights of being human. It is at once dangerous and thrilling. I hope one day you dare to take the plunge. 
I'm not advocating that our youngest son forsake his adventuring soul and give it all up for a  home in the suburbs or work in a cubicle. My dream for him is that he can continue exploring the globe and his inner self, accepting physical and mental challenges, and make a living doing so. He's one of an elite group of seekers who dares to step far outside the boundaries of what most others think possible. But I also hope  that he never turns completely away from the ordinary life of making a home and  having a family. Because it's good, too, and has its own rewards—and even an occasional thrill. 

Crisis of confidence

I've started four blog posts since Oct. 31, and have yet to complete one. I reach a certain pathetic point and say, who cares? And then ordinary life calls me away from the computer.
Years ago when I wrote a weekly newspaper column, I often had the same self-defeating thought but had to forge ahead regardless of everyday demands. There's a lot to be said for deadlines. Dogs resulted, but I occasionally produced something that pleased me. Reading over those columns 25 years later, too many make me cringe. Others make me a proud of what I was once able to think and write. I'm older now. Can I still do it?
My everyday life is focused on gardening and cooking, much of which is linked to my 36-year marriage to PK; keeping fit with yoga and cycling; fulfilling my requirement for heavy backbeat music and vigorous dancing; shepherding my sweet almost-94-year-old mother through her last years; keeping up a part-time writing/editing business; maintaining precious friendships; traveling when possible, and sustaining a supportive role for the Women's Crisis Support Team, a domestic violence non profit in Grants Pass. What comes gasping at the end is artistic expression via blog writing and photography. I also dream of textile art (why else have I saved all those fabric scraps and wine sleeves?)  drawing, painting, and putting together creative projects on behalf of our adorable first grandson, Noah Preston Korbulic, nearly six months old.

That's him. Noah. Most adorable Duck fan ever. 

Our two grown sons, who were once at the dead center of my universe, are still prominent but they have edged into outer orbits with their own so-interesting lives to be followed from afar. Electronic telescopes work. Email, Facebook, blogs, text msgs,  occasional phone conversations, and the too-infrequent in-person visits that always surprise and delight me. Who is this handsome young father, husband, and about-to-be Ph.D? And the extreme athlete adventurer whose current African expedition keeps me awake at night?
The young father will soon learn that his child is not his for long, but belongs to the universe; and the wandering son will know, if he doesn't already, the truth of this Stephen Crane poem:


          A man said to the universe. 

"Sir I exist!" "However," replied the universe, 

"The fact has not created in me 

A sense of obligation." 

And that brings me back to my universe: the simple little plot of Earth that PK and I temporarily claim as our own. It is 3.5 acres of Rogue Valley bottomland. We live in a modest but much-loved home that we started building 30+ years ago. The soil here is sticky fertile black clay, but through the years we've reclaimed a sizable piece, and with mountains of organic matter, have turned it into sweet friable soil that releases an intoxicating fragrance when turned over, and produces, with much toil and love, food that sustains us. This piece of land is small. But it belongs to us, to PK in one way and to me in another. So let's get to that.

These late-season serranos, jalapenos and assorted others were harvested earlier this month. Peppers are PK's labor of love. I love them too, but am glad he plants the seeds and nurtures the seedlings and weeds, thins, harvests, and makes the pepper flakes and cans the sauces and so much more. 

After having declared the summer harvest over and done several times, last on November 13, I was delighted to discover the world's sweetest cherry tomatoes still ripening in a once-hidden corner of the garden. I picked a berry basket and declared it quits on summer harvest. On Nov. 18th, I ventured  into the rain and wind, and little golden nuggets beckoned again. Unbelievably, there was another basket to pick! See how jewel-like the universe can become when one is focused on an infinitesimal patch of Earth? Well, I guess you had to be there. 

These are the last- harvested round and paste tomatoes, Nov. 8 Many years the garden is inundated by this time.

And these are Roma types that have been ripening inside since early November. 

Tomato removal in progress. So many green ones didn't reach maturity, but we still had the most prolific tomato harvest in memory. All those green ones on the vine will go into the pile in the next picture.

These are spent vegetable plants tossed into a thick row in the field outside the garden. PK will run the tractor/mower over to grind them into mulch. We won't put this stuff back into the garden, however, because we don't want to reintroduce any bugs or diseases.

This is the garden as it looks now, more or less. It's to-bed for the winter. But beneath the white permeable cloth are broccoli, kale, brussels sprouts, and cabbage plants. The cold frame has been placed in front of the house, and in late December (when we return from a trip to Costa Rica) we'll plant spinach, lettuce and chard. The elevated rows are heaped with compost (grass clippings, leaves, kitchen waste, manure) that brewed in the trenches all summer. At the right rear, covered with a layer of straw, is next year's garlic crop. Beyond that, tattered prayer flags that need to be replaced. And beyond the garden fence, the future home of bovine and porcine types that PK fancies will join us.
 Nite nite, garden. See ya in February, when I'll be cutting kale, weeding garlic, and planting beets and peas. Unless the uncaring universe plucks me up and sets me down elsewhere. You never know, do you?