An Advent of Sorts

Preparing to sell our house is proving more difficult than I would have imagined - not the actual selling, but PREPARING to sell.  The house must be clean.  The little projects must be finished.  The closets must be cleaned out and organized.  The windows should be washed (notice I said "should" - I don't know if we'll get that far).  Extraneous matter should be thrown out so that clutter disappears.  The kitchen should be scrubbed until it gleams.

All of this is overwhelming.  It's as if we are getting ready to move without putting anything in boxes.

And then, when we start the "little projects," others raise their ugly heads.  A few years ago, one of our sewer pipes broke - it was a clay pipe from 1937 - and we had to dig down to replace it.  To do that required that we break up and remove part of a 12-foot sidewalk that led from the driveway to the back door.  We have always meant to replace it, but never have.  We really wanted to design a more attractive and inventive walkway, but we never could find anyone who was interested in envisioning something different.  So we gave in - a sidewalk it is.  But who will pour the concrete?

Finding someone to construct the thing was head-spinning.  First, one must get bids - many bids.  Then, one chooses the person.  Then the two of you must put together a schedule.  And it turns out that he can't do the project right away through no fault of his.  So the sidewalk waits.

Then we cleaned the shower surround so that it would be pristine white (why I didn't want it pristine white for me is beyond me).  As we cleaned, we found a few cracks in the grout that meant we need to re-grout the whole thing.  Fortunately, a reliable handyman is able to get to that chore within the next week.

The next step is polishing the kitchen.  I confess to being afraid to go in there, because who knows what we will find that must be done?  But go in we will, and we hope that it is just the next step as opposed to the next three steps.

Slowly but surely, the beautiful house at 1020 South Barrett is being brought to its finest - just in time for a new family.

Travelogue continued

Crested Butte, Colorado, has a robust arts community.  While we were visiting, we spent much of Saturday downtown at the arts festival, where artists from all over the country displayed their wares.  Some of the art was just okay, but some was really interesting and pretty.  Of course I found something purple - a "silent oboe," according to the artist.  It looks lovely on my office wall, especially because it is now surrounded by a Georgia O'Keeffe print and a little handmade card bearing one of my life's mantras:  "Cinderella is proof that a new pair of shoes can change your life."

As we were exploring the festival, we found the beer and wine tent.  The tent had a "no waste" policy, which meant that we paid $15 for a metal glass full of wine, and I do mean full, and then all refills were $5 each.  The only down side was that we had to stay in a fenced-in area while we imbibed.  The forced imprisonment turned out to be just fine, however, because musicians entertained us as we drank cool wine on a hot summer day.

My favorite was a woman who played the electric violin and was accompanied by a man on a very interesting instrument: a cajon, which is a box-like thing.

The percussionist sits on top of it and plays rhythm on the box's body.  The placement of the percussionist's beats on the box determines the timbre of the sound emanating from it.  This guy also played a high hat cymbal with one foot and a tambourine with the other.  It was fascinating as well as beautiful.  The violinist played classical music, some ethereal-sounding Mideast folk songs, and even a few jazzy tunes.  We could have listened all day.

But art called, and so we drank our wine and continued our sojourn down the closed-off main street.  We found a photographer from Springfield, Missouri, a city a couple of hours away from both my home town to the south and the town where we now live to the north.  Her technique is interesting, but I was unable to fall so in love with any of her stylized photos that I had to take one home.  Eventually, we went back to our hosts' home and prepared for another trip downtown, this time to eat sushi and attend a jazz concert at a cool little fine arts center.

Though I am a "foodie," I had never eaten sushi - raw fish and rice and the other things that go with it - because it seems to me that raw fish should be eaten somewhere close to the fish's home.  Missouri just is too far away, as is any other place we visit. However, our friend is a doctor, so I figured if anything were to go wrong, he could make sure that I lived through it.

We asked him to order our dinner, and I was very surprised to find that I enjoyed just about everything I put in my mouth.  I didn't put eel in my mouth.  I don't know.  There's just something about an eel.

After dinner, we had some time to kill before the concert, and so we hung out at the fine arts center that was hosting a month-long music festival.  As we were enjoying the lobby, I heard piano scales coming from the auditorium, and so I followed the sound and found myself in front of a pianist who was playing scales the way my college piano teacher wanted me to play them.  I never quite got there, but this woman was showing me how it should be done.  When played skillfully, even scales can be beautiful.  She explained that she was getting ready for a free concert the next night, warming up, and getting used to the touch of the piano.  I understand.  Playing a piano that is "different" can be intimidating, especially if the action is different - meaning that the keys are harder or easier to push than the keys on my piano, the one on which I, um, practice. 😏

Eventually, we got to the part of the evening I had been anticipating - a jazz concert presented by two musicians I had never heard of.  Both had traveled from Denver where they both studied and taught; the pianist was originally from Cuba, and the clarinetist/saxophonist was originally from New York.  Of the two, the pianist was better - he played with passion and precision.  The clarinetist, however, was having a bad night.  He squeaked about as often as I did when I was in high school, and as he continued to do so, he became more and more frustrated.  His frustration caused more squeaks, and, well, you get the idea.  Regardless, the music was worth hearing, and I was thrilled to be at a real concert in a very intimate setting.

Eventually, we headed back to our home away from home to get some shut-eye before we began our slog back across Kansas the next day.

We're Not in Kansas Anymore

As a native of Southern Missouri, I am used to the gently rounded Ozark mountains, carpeted with deciduous trees - oaks, maples, hickories, and others whose names I do not know.  In the summer, they radiate green; in the fall, they color the landscape with reds and yellows. The trees resemble skeletons in the winter, and they are the earliest harbingers of spring when their yellow-green leaves begin to show, creating an palette of barely colored softness.

The Colorado mountains are not like the Ozark mountains.  They are sharp and rugged and steep, with boulders peeking through haphazardly strewn evergreen trees.  Sometimes, the mountains cannot hold the trees - no soil is visible on the rocky terrain. Perhaps this is why these mountains are called the "Rockies."  And while the Ozark mountains can make a person feel as if he or she is a part of the plan for the Earth, the Colorado mountains easily point out the insignificance of man in the whole scheme of things.  We can climb the things, but they are still bigger than we, and will be here long after we are gone.

Such was my observation on our first full day in Crested Butte.  We actually went several miles away to Black Canyon, where our hosts, Geary and Jan, had planned for us to take a guided water tour through the Gunnison River, which is a tributary of the Colorado River.  For the most part, the river is lazy and gentle, but the views are spectacular.  Our guide informed us that the canyon is easily 2250 feet deep and that three dams control its flow.

Though we were quite safe, I admit to being a little nervous about being in an excursion boat so soon after the Duck disaster in Branson.  As we began our river journey, black clouds began to swirl, and it occurred to me that the weather could change here as easily and as quickly as it does in the Ozarks.  Though I seem to be turning into a worrywart (resembling my father), I was able to talk myself down and actually enjoy the ride.

Before we got to the ride, however, we had to get down to the river.  We walked down 232 steps - at least that's what Geary told us - and then we walked about half a mile to get to the boat.  Of course, that meant that we walked a half mile back and then climbed those 232 steps to get back to the car.  At a high altitude, all those steps wore me out.  I knew I would feel each one of them in my hamstrings and glutes the next day, but what better way to get a workout than be out in perfect weather and beautiful surroundings!

Our day ended with a home-cooked meal - steak au poivre with appropriate accoutrements, and that included a bottle (or two) of cabernet.  Bedtime came right on time!

Kansas, Continued

Getting up in Goodland gave us another seven hours to drive before we reached our destination, but another 90 minutes or so over I-70 in Kansas and Colorado.  Although I complain about the boring drive, I must give some credit for at least a little nice scenery.

The wind farms that dot the landscape in western Kansas and eastern Colorado loom on the horizon like skinny, white trees.  We can see them from a distance of several miles, standing there, silent, ethereal, arms waving gently through a breeze we cannot feel.  As we approach, they grow larger and appear more like sentinels for travelers, watching over them and the highway.  And then we pass them, and they are gigantic windmills, of a size that is hard to imagine, humongous blades turning sometimes swiftly, sometimes slowly, sometimes not at all.  Somehow, though, they offer a sort of comfort, and they give us something to look at besides the flat Kansas countryside.

On this trip, too, we have noticed several fields of corn that seem to have withered and died for some reason.  The stalks are green, and the sheathed corn is visible, but the scanty leaves are curled and shapeless; I imagine that some farmer has lost a great deal on those fields this year.

We finally reached Limon and turned south toward Colorado Springs.  Instead of driving on an interstate highway, we then were on an old-fashioned two-way, two lane highway, driving by farms with piles of junk in the fields - rusting equipment and trucks, "stuff," falling down pens for unseen animals.

Eventually, we reached Colorado Springs and began the first final leg of our trip toward Crested Butte.  We found that we would be arriving in Cañon City around lunchtime, and so I once again called up Trip Advisor to find a place to eat good food.  The first place we looked was Burger World, but when we approached, the place was very crowded, which probably means it is very good, and it looked as if we would have to eat outside.  We didn't want to do that, and so our second choice was Muggs, which was a combination sports bar and cafe.  The food was all right, but I would choose another place should I ever again find myself in Cañon City.

What we did discover was that we were at the home of the Royal Gorge.  I had no idea.  This is why I should always ask Kevin Schroeder to plan our trips.  He finds everything interesting on the way to a particular location and then plots the path toward them all.  We had already missed Pike's Peak because we hadn't thought about it ahead of time, and by the time we decided, "Hey!  It might be nice to go see Pike's Peak," we found it to be a hour and a half away.  Neither of us wanted to add that much time to our trip, so we said, "Next time."

I wanted, however, to see the Royal Gorge, and because it was on the way to Crested Butte, we wouldn't really lose any time.  As we made our way up the lane that led to the visitor center, I was preparing myself to walk across the bridge spanning the Gorge.  An unfortunate acrophobic, I thought I could probably do it if I set my mind to it.

But when we got there, we found out that admission was $27 per person, and that was the only way to walk across the bridge, see the educational film, ride the gondola, and get a tour.  We looked at each other and said, "Next time."  I usually am a pretty good planner, but this time, I did not plan well at all.  I must make a note to myself for our next trip.

We made our way back to the car and began the real final leg of our trip to Crested Butte.  Our hosts would not be arriving until late that night, and so Max and I would have time to kill once we got to the house.

After unloading the car, we went to downtown Crested Butte and were charmed by the old-fashioned looking, artsy town.  We strolled up and down the main drag, looking for a place to eat some dinner and have a cocktail and finally settled on Montanya (Trip Advisor's number 1 rated restaurant in town), which is a rum distillery and small plates restaurant.  Because the weather was nothing short of perfect, we were able to eat outside and watch the parade of tourists and locals while paying attention to a beautiful border collie waiting patiently for his mom and dad to finish eating and take him on his way.

As for the food, I had never had an Old Fashioned made with anything but bourbon, but an Old Fashioned made with Montanya's rum was just as good.  Max had a rum Manhattan, and pronounced it as delicious as the ones made with bourbon we usually have in Little Rock at the Capitol Bar and Grill.  We ate some house-made potato chips and shared a ramen noodle bowl with miso broth, fresh enoki mushrooms, and baby bok choy.  It was perfect on a perfect evening - not too heavy, but enough food to satisfy, and enough cocktail to bring a long travel day to a perfect, relaxing end.

Travelogue - To Colorado Across Kansas: The Earth is Flat

Thinking that visiting a good friend who now lives in Colorado sounds like a good idea - that is, until we realize that the trip means cruising through Kansas, east to west.  Nothing.  Nothing.  80 miles and hour, and nothing.  Will it ever end?

A few things, however, have changed the landscape - not the real one, but the landscape of what one can expect when pushing the pedal to the metal in hopes that the drab and drear will disappear more quickly.  The internet is one of those things.

If a person is not driving - if one is merely a passenger - one can spend hour upon hour reading Facebook posts, e-mail, updates from Messenger, and the latest baseball scores on Bleacher Report.  If one has an agenda, for instance, if one knows that he or she will be in a certain town - or close - at the lunch hour, Trip Advisor will provide all kinds of information about places to eat because other brave souls have done so before:  where restaurants are located, the names and locations of the top 10 restaurants in that town, how much it might cost to eat at any of those restaurants, and on and on.

Eating at a local restaurant in a little town is a little bit adventure and a little bit gamble.  Just because the food might have been good the week before means nothing in connection with what it tastes like today.  But as opposed to eating at Applebee's or Burger King, it's usually worth the risk.

So in Junction City, we tried Negril, a little Caribbean/Jamaican joint in the middle of the street that looked as if it needed a good going over with bleach on a stick.  This was unexpected.  Who could imagine finding a restaurant owned and run by an obviously immigrant woman – a woman of color, with an accent, who prominently displayed pictures of Barack Obama – in good old Red Kansas?  And yet, there it was.  Negril had been praised mightily by many who lived in Junction City or had passed through for some unknown reason.  The dish most raved about was goat curry.  While I am adventurous enough to go to Negril, which needed a paint job and a cleaning crew for the ladies’ room, I am not adventurous enough to try curried cabrito.  I did, however, inhale the chicken curry.

I do not particularly care for dark chicken meat.  Though I reveled in eating the drumstick when I was a child, as an adult, I find the meat to be somewhat chunky and greasy – all in all, unappealing.  So when the owner served the curry to me, I was distressed to see that the chicken meat was from three drumsticks and was still on the bone.  The cook had, however, cut the leg so that the useless bottom part was amputated, and what was left was the meaty upper portion.

I have no idea what she did to those drumsticks.  I assume she stewed them in the curry sauce, but whatever she did, I ate it with relish – and not the pickle type.  The meat was tender, flavorful, and definitely not greasy nor chunky.  It fell from the bone with merely a touch of my fork, and then it disappeared into my mouth, never to be seen again.  The curry was served with rice and peas, which were cooked to perfection – tender, but not soft.  Apparently, I need to learn how to cook chicken legs.  Max had the jerk chicken, which I tasted, and his chicken leg was just as tender as mine – and as flavorful.  It did not however, come with a sauce.  The star of that plate was the jerk seasoning.    I decided not to eat all the food on my plate so that I would be able to enjoy another meal that day – after all, what is travel other than an opportunity to find and eat good food in different places?

And that is just what we did.  I had made a reservation for a hotel in Goodland, Kansas, for the night, and so when we arrived, some nine hours after we had begun our travels that morning, I again went to Trip Advisor for some advice about where to eat dinner.  Everybody and his brother suggested Tequilas [sic] Mexican Grill.  So we went there.

The food was good.  Unfortunately, or fortunately (however you might look at it) however, we have been spoiled by El Tapatio in Sedalia.  El Tap's salsa is superb, the rice is delicious, and the refried beans have not only flavor, but also texture.  Tequilas was lacking on all three counts; however, Tequilas had larrupin’ good marinated pork, which I ordered, and Max liked the shrimp in mango sauce, but he didn’t particularly like the sauce.  Neither did I.

We had a reservation at the Holiday Inn Express in Goodland, which turned out to be a good bet.  Although it is not the newest iteration of this chain, for $100, we got a clean room, a clean bathroom that was big enough for me to put on my make-up while Max brushed his teeth, an in-room Keurig, and as much breakfast as we wanted for free.

All of these things made driving through Kansas tolerable.  I don’t really have anything against Kansas, other than Kris Kobach and the fact that the horizon could convince anyone that the Earth is flat, but driving through is simply tedious.  I know of no other way to describe it.  Regardless, we found bright spots that made it just fine.

Exercise - One Person's View

I am not an exercise nut.  I am not one of those people who finds it comforting to go outside and run around and sweat.  When I was a kid, I loved riding my bike and playing softball, but somehow, those activities grew less attractive as I grew older.  Until I was about 39, I was able to do just fine without stretching my body parts.  But then, one day, I woke up 10 pounds heavier.  I know that sounds like an exaggeration, but it isn't.  One day, I woke up 10 pounds heavier.

Why did that happen?  All of a sudden, the once-a-week cookie at Court was too much.  The occasional dinner roll with no butter was verboten.  And a piece of pie?  Forget about it.  Eating - and therefore life - became a pain. 

So I started trying to find some exercise that I could fit into my routine as a lawyer with a toddler.  Walking around the block every day a couple of times - really fast - helped. I measured my path, and it was just about a mile.  I could do that in 20 minutes, so I was satisfied.  And so was my body.  I added that cookie back into my week, and I was able to fit comfortably into my clothes, which were a pretty big carrot for my progress.  I had spent way too much on them to have to ditch them for larger sizes.

So for a couple of years, the daily block walking went just fine.  And then it wasn't enough. So I got a treadmill, and upped the walking time to 30 minutes at 3.7 mph.  That helped.  And then it wasn't enough, either.  So I added a yoga class twice a week.  Nothing changed. 

When Emily went to college, I decided that those extra pounds, brought on by eating too much, or maybe drinking that extra glass of wine, needed to go away.  So I joined Weight Watchers and hired a personal trainer.  I lost a pound a week, and I was hungry every day.  Every Day. 

Finally, I figured out that maybe I wasn't supposed to be really thin.  Maybe it was all right to be a little chunky around the middle.  Maybe I didn't need to wear really tight clothing.  And just as I figured this out, fashion gave me a break.  Leggings and tunics came back in style.  While I had added a couple of inches around my waist, my legs still looked good; therefore, I could wear those skin-tight leggings that showed off the shape of my legs and could cover up the chunk with a long, loose tunic.  I was in hog heaven.  Well, maybe not heaven - maybe I just breathed a little more easily.

Now, I still wear leggings and tunics.  I still walk on the treadmill most days - two miles.  I take one yoga class twice a week and another once a week.  And I still drink that extra glass of wine.  For as I have discovered over the past couple of years, we don't know what will happen to us when we grow really old - assuming that we do.  I want to try to enjoy what I have right now, and I'm not going to let a few extra pounds make me unhappy in a pretty good life. 

The good news is that I have grown to like walking on the treadmill, and I enjoy my yoga classes.  But generally, I would still rather read a book than get all out of breath and sweaty.  I'm still me.