If only

Summer seems slow in coming to Sisters this year. Clouds drift across the sky, occasionally dropping rain, and temperatures have ranged in the 60s and 70s. Not nearly hot enough in my opinion, but I'm working on learning to control the weather.

This weekend begins the 39th annual Sisters Outdoor Quilt Show and a trip to the library today confirmed that our little town is already filling up with excited fiber artists. The church down the street is offering breakfast daily for those taking classes or attending lectures and every retail shop is hoping to recoup some of the losses taken during the rebuilding of Highway 20.

The highway construction was a tremendous effort that exceeded expectations. ODOT closed the street on March 1 and reopened it May 15—on schedule. During that period they worked 24 hours a day, seven days a week. They took out the old crumbling asphalt and the mixed-bag sidewalks—in most cases all the way to the store fronts. Old wooden awnings came down with a crash to make room for heavy equipment and the steady stream of dump trucks carrying gravel. It was noisy, confusing, and quite impressive.

Workers laid new curbs and sidewalks.

Highway 20 was closed during construction.

Now the highway is open, paved sidewalks are in place, and lighting and landscaping are on the way. Newly built wood awnings and fresh paint have appeared, thanks to grants from the city, and its fun to see Sisters so spruced up and happy. Even better is knowing how smoothly it was accomplished. Yes, it took years to get everyone to agree on a plan and a process, but once they did it came together beautifully.

It's satisfying to see something done well, so if your plans take you through Sisters this summer, stop and look around. Stroll down the new paver-topped sidewalks, sit on the new benches, admire the new stone work and the new store fronts, and consider how it was done. State and local government agencies, private contractors, outspoken retailers, and demanding citizens all had a voice in the decision, and they all came together to make it work.

Now, if we could just get this kind of cooperation in D.C. . . .

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Rodeo!

This past weekend was the 73rd annual Sisters Rodeo, and of course we went. One of my friends here said she was surprised I liked the rodeo, and I admit it's out of character, but I've always been a cowgirl at heart. I am, after all, a westerner, and though we were townies, I grew up riding my friends' horses whenever I could—but never often enough. More important, I never missed a Roy Rogers, Tim Holt, Gene Autry, or Lone Ranger movie, though my heart was always with Roy.

The rodeo is big here in Sisters. Besides the rodeo itself—a four-day event run by volunteers, who do a fantastic job—there's a dance, a Sunday morning Buckaroo Breakfast, and a parade. Closets are explored for those "I know it's here somewhere" hats and boots that lay unused most of the year, and the town fills up with cowboys and cowgirls, real and imagined. There's also "Art in the Park," for those who prefer a more aesthetic sport. But really, what could be prettier than a sunny day and a well-handled horse?

Here are some of my favorite photos from the last few days, all taken by Ray. (Nikon D90; Nikon AF-S Nikkor 55–300 mm lens.)

A parade goer snaps a photo of children.

Pre-parade excitement builds along Cascade Avenue

Sisters Rodeo Queen, Whitney Richey

Dreaming of being a cowboy

More parade fun

Hang on!

Beautiful Percheron horses, driven by Jason Goodman

Eight seconds sure is a long time

The bulls won this event; no one managed to stay on.

Barrel racing, my favorite event.

We get our annual overdose of prayer, patriotism, and downright American corn at the rodeo, and we plan to go again next year. Ride 'em cowgirl!

Winter into spring

While the rest of the country suffers through massive winter storms, we've been lucky here in Sisters country. Except for a cold snap in early January our winter has been mild, with some sunshine present almost every day. But yesterday our walk took us into the heart of a weather war.

Walking east along the long asphalt path that edges the route to McKenzie Pass we looked right to see nothing but whiteout conditions. All was hidden but the storm, from which buffeting winds carried thick snow that melted as it struck. A pale sun worked hard to break through but the storm prevailed.

On our left was a wide expanse of azure blue sky and bright sunlit patches brightening the forest floor. Our path was apparently the dividing line between winter and spring, and though the battle shifted throughout our hour-long walk, winter eventually prevailed.

This morning's walk was different. A light dusting of snow was already melting on the black asphalt and the sun shone from ear to ear except where trees lined the path and cast their morning shadows. These were filled with a thin layer of frozen snow. Some were so perfectly outlined it felt like sacrilege to trod on them, but trod I did.

And I felt a bit guilty. So easily do we cast aside these gifts of nature, like wondrous blinking signs reminding us over and over to pay attention, get out of our heads, and stay mindful. And nature is close here; I have no excuse.

The weather yesterday reminded me of a favorite poem by Nikki Giovanni. I can't improve on her words so I'll leave you with it.

Winter Poem

once a snowflake fell

on my brow and i loved 

it so much and i kissed 

it and it was happy and called its cousins

and brothers and a web

of snow engulfed me then

i reached to love them all

and i squeezed them and they became

a spring rain and i stood perfectly

still and was a flower

Winter

There is still snow on the ground, left over from the ten inches we received at Christmas. My snow experience was minimal before moving here so I am surprised to see it melting unevenly, turning what was a smooth and crystalline front lawn into a collection of humps and bumps and green-brown holes. It's the same in the forest fields we pass on our daily walk. The snow lies deep in places but not evenly, and the small brown patches that surround each sage or pine or juniper grow broader by the day.

Despite the cold we've managed to walk most days, though we wait for it to warm to at least 25F before setting out. I find, somewhat to my surprise, that I like this dry, cold air and the winter views. Yesterday a herd of eight or ten deer crossed our path and shortly after we heard, then saw, a family of fat quail scrabbling through the underbrush.

The cycle of daily melt and nightly freeze leaves crusty ice edges along the remaining snow, edges that I find irresistible—so much so that I'm compelled to stop frequently and give them a good kick. Sometimes I jump on them. It's amazingly satisfying to see the ice crack into tiny pieces, and I wonder if I'm entering my second childhood. If so, Ray has decided to come along.

He used to stop and wait (and laugh) while I paused to kick and stab the ice with my heel, but now he sometimes joins me—maybe in self defense. Today we spent several long minutes hopping around on a particularly delicious piece of ice, while traffic flowed past. I thought we must look like toddlers stomping in puddles, but it didn't matter. We were having fun.

The sun is still low in the south as we walk and the tall pines cast long dark shadows across the fields. The three volcanos rise snow-covered from the flat plain, looking like giant marshmallows against the pale blue sky. There is silence here and a respite, if we choose to take it, from the worries of the world. It is a good way to spend a winter.

A newsworthy autumn

Autumn was my favorite season until I got old enough to relate to it, now I prefer summers. But one can't deny that fall is generally lovely, and here in the high desert it's been glorious. The aspens and vine maples flash bright red and yellow in the sunshine and the bright leaves light secret paths through pine and fir forests. The Ponderosa pines (pondos to the locals) have dropped thousands of needles across our little yard, a fact I confess I find surprising. I knew needles fell, of course, but it never occurred to me that I might have to rake them.

The Harvest Faire was the big event of the season, with the Nugget reporting that it drew more than 180 artisans and crafts people from across the Pacific Northwest. We went, of course, and bought, of course—mostly gifts for the upcoming holidays. And although our neighbors raved about what a great market it was, I found it pretty much the same as all the others, only bigger. Sisters has more craft markets than any town we've ever lived in.

The Nugget, a weekly, is a surprisingly good paper for a town this small, and it's apparently healthy. Like papers of yore it's full of advertising, letters to the editor, and stories about local politics, people, schools, and events. Articles this week run the gamut from "Senator Wyden talks energy in Sisters" and the announcement of next year's rodeo queen, to a fascinating column by a local naturalist on horse flies, called "The blood suckers." The 32-page paper makes a positive contribution to the community, keeping us informed and providing a platform for discussion of local issues.

Good newspapers offer what the Internet cannot and I find it disturbing that so many have folded. It's a loss to readers and a blow to democracy, and it's a loss that contributes to the polarization we all feel. When we visit online sites that cater to our predisposed beliefs and bigotries, when we read only what we agree with, or limit our reading to our own narrow interests, we lose more than a better understanding of our world. We lose community, we lose the sharing of common knowledge and facts, and we lose a diversity of opinions against which to balance our own.

As I sit here in this bitter political season I am grateful for our local paper with its diverse opinions and for the community it helps sustain. Local elections and issues will be argued in its pages and politicians will buy ads. This is all good. And while the election plays out in the pages of the Nugget and in the bits and bytes of the Internet—and my blood pressure rises and falls in tune—I will find relief in gold and russet leaves and the wind-blown pondos outside my window. And if the tension gets really bad, I will go outside and rake.

Lifting smoke, rising spirits

As I write the sun is looking more like its usual self and the heavy smoke of the past week seems to be lifting. The inversion layer that has blanketed Sisters is dissipating at last and life suddenly looks more cheerful.

We will happily say goodbye to nicotine-colored skies, ash that covers cars and sidewalks, sore throats and burning eyes, and the inescapable smell. Yesterday at the dentist all the talk was of smoke, the awfulness of it, the effects of it, the color of it, and the escaping of it. My intimate knowledge of smoke increases daily though it's not a topic I would have chosen.

The fire itself still burns. This morning's report has it at 22,000 acres with over a thousand firefighters. And the changing weather that improves things for us, and for the businesses here that rely on tourism, will make things worse for the firefighters. Lower humidity, higher temperatures, and westerly winds will, in the words of the incident report, "test containment lines."

Today we plan to take our bikes to Black Butte or the Metolius, where we're told the smoke is almost nonexistant. Exercise will surely help.

Have a good day and remember, there's nothing so pleasant as breathing.

Moving karma

Heading home

The busyness I referenced in my last entry continues but we have physically come to a halt in Tangent until February 29 when we head to Sisters, Oregon for The Closing. The Closing (the legal title transfer of our new house) has taken on the significance of a major international treaty in our tired minds and marks the end of waiting and the beginning of the next adventure. It's been 138 days since we moved out of our Monmouth house. We are ready to be home again.

Since our arrival in the US 23 days ago we have spent two or more nights on this itinerary: Portland, Oregon; Longview, Washington; Tangent, Oregon; Chico, California; Sisters, Oregon; Tangent, Portland, and back to Tangent, where our little 17-foot overstuffed Casita is our temporary home, thanks to the generosity and five acres of Joanne and Seaton, two wonderful, patient friends.

This peripatetic period is symptomatic of our married life. We are about to purchase our seventh house in our seventh town, not including our stays abroad and the at least seven apartments. Both of us hope this is our last major move, though I would never shut the door if the right offer came along. We are not alone in moving frequently but I suspect only a minority do so—as we have—voluntarily. Jennifer has called us gypsies and I'm inclined to agree but we never set out to do it this way. It's all been rather accidental.

Still, we wouldn't have done it differently. All these moves, both here and abroad, have allowed us to meet so many new people: co-workers and business associates, neighbors, passing acquaintances, sharers of common efforts and activities, friends of friends, fellow students, fellow campers, fellow travelers. We've met the rare and the common, the brilliant and simple, the boring and stimulating. All were gifts and (mostly) we enjoyed their company and companionship. Then we willingly moved on. Luckily, a few friends have stuck with us, repeatedly crossing out our old addresses and writing in new ones, though often complaining or questioning our sanity. They are widely scattered but they remain good friends despite the years and miles that separate us. It takes effort to keep friendships healthy across those distances, even with email, and we are grateful.

I confess I sometimes envy those who stayed behind. I envy their stability, their wider circle of friends, their long-held traditions. I envy their knowledge of their hometowns, the familiar faces in the shops, the cheerful waves from their neighbor's children's children. I envy, but I don't regret.

When I was a child I fantasized about keeping a logbook containing the names of every individual I met, even casually. I often lament not doing so and wonder how many notebooks I might have filled. Lots, I think.

It occurred to me the other evening, thinking about all the people we'd met, that maybe this was planned. Maybe this is a kind of karma round-up, giving us the chance to deal with issues from many past lives. Maybe we couldn't stay in one place because we owed something to all these disparate people. If that's the case I hope they're repaid because I want my next life to be a quiet one. Maybe some Buddhist monastery in the backwoods of Tibet or Bhutan will take me in. It's rather appealing, that idea of sitting still for a lifetime. But not yet, I think. Not yet.