The Origin of Hobie

I have been thinking about writing an explanation of my nickname, Hobie (pronounced "hoe-bee"), but I had wanted a visual aid. In the great Move From the Yellow House I had hoped that a long-lost keepsake might appear: The Hobie T-shirt. But alas, it did not. It was taken away as unexpectedly and quietly as it appeared.

Here is the story: One afternoon, many years ago, I took a load of laundry into the laundry room. The laundry room at the Riggs house was, well, its own continent, if you will, separated from the outside world by a mountain range of long-discarded clothing items, a sea of assorted odds and ends, and the Great Rift Valley of Whatever-was-on-the-table-last. Finding myself in this strange and somewhat terrifying environment, I was loathe to make my way back out to fetch something to wear so that I could put my current togs in the laundry as well. Just as I feared that I would have to venture back out, I saw, as if in a pillar of light, a glowing vintage 80s T-shirt in size XXXXXL, the word "HOBIE" emblazoned across the chest. I put it on. It was meant to simply get me back to my room. But then, when I realized how wonderfully comfortable it is to have room for 2 additional people inside your T-shirt, I began wearing "the Hobie" around the house. It irked Katie beyond belief. She HATED the Hobie. No one knows quite where it came from. We are not a surfing family. We are not an 80s T-shirt kind of family. We are, however, the kind of family that would have such a clothing item inexplicably appear in the laundry and not question it. It was a gift from the Gods! It brightened my life for many years. I wore the Hobie, more and more to bother Katie and less and less for comfort. But I wore the Hobie proudly. And the name stuck. I thought I saw the Hobie recently-- I was unable to let my namesake go with the many, many DI trips I have made. But, alas, the time has come for the Hobie to move on. Perhaps it has gone to Hobie Heaven. Perhaps it has appeared in the laundry room of another unexpecting soul. But wherever you have gone, dear Hobie, I will proudly carry your name with me always.

I have searched for a representation of the Hobie in all its glory, but the best I could do was this: Available currently on ebay for $5.99. The REAL Hobie is, however, priceless.

Plymouth Rock

I have been looking for the disk with these photos... So although it is a few days late, here is a picture of all the Riggs girls at Plymouth Rock in Dec 02. The rock is that small, snowcovered lump to the right of mom's knee. Glad we drove for hours from Providence in the snow... No. Really glad. It was a beautiful day.Plymouth Rock December 2002

Wanted: Gay Boyfriend

I am currently accepting applications for a new gay boyfriend. I need a date to my sister’s wedding in February, so I figure we should start dating now so we will have plenty of amusing stories to share with the others at our table, so that we can be the center of attention, and make people say thing like “aren’t those two funny?”, “what a great rapport!”, and “do you think she knows??” Well, yes, I ALWAYS know. I have had plenty of practice, thank you very much. I have had a best gay boyfriend at my side since high school at least. Even if they weren’t out yet. But I knew. You see, it is a very safe thing for a girl like me, and comes with many benefits: always someone to go to the movies with, a no-pressure date for important family functions, someone who actually wants to go to the opera and cultural events, and at the end of the night, I don’t feel like the second-rate being that I am because you’re “just not into me.” I don’t have to take it personally—you’re gay, for crying out loud. Of course you don’t find me attractive! Of course you don’t want to be with me forever! There’s always (and I do mean ALWAYS) the chance that those sentiments would be the outcome of a straight date. That’s why I stick to the gay boys—then I can blame you instead of myself. It works out great for everyone. There are also the added benefits of guilt-free gay-boy relationships: you can help me choose the right outfit, you understand my uncontrollable love for shoes, we can sleep together in the same bed (under my parents’ roof, even), and you don’t mind holding my hand in public. It’s a beautiful thing. So, I am looking. All my best standby gay boyfriends have moved on at the moment. I have been going to movies all alone for weeks on end. And I am simply tired of being the prettiest one in the room!!

Here's a musical number for you. Applications accepted daily. It is the holidays, you know!

New Flavor

I had really meant for my blog to be light-hearted and funny. I had meant that for my life, as well, so I guess I shouldn't be too hard on myself.
Anywho....
To brighten things up a bit, I would like to say that I have tried the new Crest Lemon Ice toothpaste. Suprisingly, I quite enjoy it. I do have to remind myself that Lemon Pledge is not necessarily a bad flavor, since it is made of "real lemon oil." It is certainly more accurately lemon than the terrible Diet Coke with lemon, which actually tastes like you are drinking Pledge. But it makes my mouth and my little teethies feel so, well, lemony morning fresh. And it might make that awkward freshly-brushed teeth to orange juice transition much more pleasant. I will give a full report, should my ulcers ever allow me to begin drinking orange juice again.

Giving Thanks

Yesterday was a very hard day for me, but in different ways than I thought it would be. Everything I have read about grief and mourning (which is not a lot) warns about the first holidays and anniversaries after your loss—that these will be some of the most difficult times. I have been trying to prepare myself for this. I have been girding up my emotional loins, if you will. So I wasn’t surprised to wake up with a sense of melancholy. And regret. I regret that the last 5 Thanksgivings (with the exception of that magical one in Paris) I have gone to work in the morning, instead of staying home and learning how my mom made that amazing stuffing. I regret that I didn’t get to watch the Macy’s Parade with mom this year and discuss the musical numbers-- very scant on Broadway numbers this year, which would have disappointed her. I also regret that last year we didn’t savor every second of our “last” Thanksgiving—last with mom, last in the yellow house, last without knowing loss, last without being truly thankful for togetherness and family.

The evening was beautiful and magical. We spent it with Elliott’s (Katie’s fiancée) extended family. We had met them before on a few occasions, and have always enjoyed their company. My mom loved his aunts. They welcomed us with open arms, literally, and made us so comfortable. They were mindful of us, mentioned mom in the prayer, and were so sensitive and kind. It was bittersweet because I knew how much it would have pleased my mom to be there. I wanted her to share the wonderful family togetherness and warmth and love that were in that house. After dinner, we sat around and sang to the amazing guitar music, laughed, and cried. I tried so much to be “in the moment” and leave all my baggage at the door. For a few moments at a time I would be carried away and be, well, happy. And for that, I am thankful.

Huzzah!

For those of you who have been anxiously following my pursuit of a college degree (for the past 13 years), you will be pleased to know that a girl named Kimber at Independent Study is the new love of my life-- based on the fact that she told me I have another week to finish my damn Physical Science class. I wanted to reach through the phone and give her a smooch... This news followed 12 straight hours of sitting here yesterday trying to finish by the published deadline, which, as it turns out, is really just a suggested deadline. This meant that I had time to go ride my horse today. For the first time since mid-June. Oh, how my soul has needed that horse time.
I guess I should clarify: the shortened version of why I have no degree (yes, this really IS the short version): I started at BYU in 1992 seeking a theatre degree. I left on my mission in 1995, returned in 1997 to find that the Department of Theatre and Film no longer existed, having been replaced by Theatre and Media Arts. My bad luck was that with the new program, my credits didn't add up to the senior level where I was when I left, and the courses I needed didn't exist... I was screwed. Fine, however, as I now wanted to pursue a degree in English. But that department didn't want me. I struggled for a a semester or so, then quit. I dropped out. I worked at Sundance and dyed my hair blue. I became addicted to Animal Planet and decided that I wanted to be a vet, after all. Rather than just do the pre-vet program, I decided to get a vet tech degree so that I would have a marketable skill rather than a lot of worldy-useless knowledge. So I reapplied to BYU and was accepted into the Animal Science major. I trudged through 3 1/2 years of that, and got to my senior advisement when Nasty Whore Advisor Lady from HELL told me that the classes (chemistry, biochem, and o-chem) originally waived 3 years before, I would have to take after all--- 3 weeks to graduation. When I had been in her office every semester for 3 1/2 years. I hate her ass-face. So I planned to take them over the summer, got hired by the circus so I didn't. I came back and decided that I am FINISHED with BYU and I don't care to ever set foot on campus again. But... I was talking to a friend of my mom's a few days after her funeral, and that friend made a call to another friend in the Fine Arts advisement office. This ANGEL looked at my transcripts, decided that in 1997 they should have allowed me to graduate in theatre, after all. So, she is making sure it happens-- the only catch is that I do have to take physical science since the equivalents I took as an animal science major won't count for GEs if I am a theatre major. So after YEARS of pain and suffering, Kimber told me today that it will happen. They will finally send me a paper that says I'm smart!!!

Another dream...And the story of Bello's Blocks

I dreamt about Bello again last night. The dreams are always very positive. This time I was backstage (which was Costco, of course) helping my friends from the Playmill get their act ready. They went on after the chinese acrobats. After I helped David get his large banner ready, I went out to the audience to sit in my usual place, the same place I sat with my mom in a previous clown dream. I was joined by various people, including my grandma. We were in just the right spot to watch a special horse act which took place on the bleachers of the balcony to our left. Then it was time for the entrance of the Playmill act, and I ran down to get in my position in one of the "revolving trapeze carriage cars," right behind Randy Boothe and Gayle Lockwood in theirs. Bello was there to help me and make me feel comfortable. He talked me through what would happen and how to be a good circus personality. As we circled the rings on the track, we would occasionaly catch each other's eye, and he would just give me a nod of encouragement. The act was quite a success.
****
**ADULT LANGUAGE WARNING**
I have tried to figure out why, in the midst of usually traumatic circus dreams, Bello is THE ONLY positive part. Ever. It may be because in my actual circus experience, he was, well, THE ONLY positive part. I can, and have, go on and on about circus society, and how it is VERY difficult to be accepted. I went into my job with people flat out telling me to my face (supervisors, colleagues) that they couldn't wait to see how soon I'd leave. It is a hard thing. Well, I did last longer than anyone before me in my position-- 4 months. And it was hard. Every day was hard, mostly on a social level. When you not only work with the same people, but live with them, it is beyond me how rude and cold people could be. I am, by nature, a very nice person. I am polite, I am willing to concede if it will keep the peace. Not always, but most of the time. Well, one person who was always polite, smiling, and just KIND was Bello. It is something that comes across when you see him perform-- the fact that he has a good heart, and a smiling soul. I was leaving the Red Unit in Indianapolis. That was to be my last city. One of the constant problems that I encountered was an intentional miscommunication as to where I was to park my trailer. I think it was a game that the guys played-- let's see how often we can make her move that damn trailer. In Indianapolis, we were at the Conseco Fieldhouse in the heart of downtown. The animal compound, in this particular venue, was across the street on the 3rd level of a parking structure. An oddly shaped, angular, parking structure. Well, since I arrived late, having spent the night alone in my trailer in a more than questionable area of Indianapolis between a few sets of traintracks (according to my given instructions, I might add), I had some difficulty trying to fit my huge camper into the very narrow spot left for me (seen here in quadrant 5 E-F, the triangle to the east of the Fieldhouse-- picture me and my camper and 10 others plus horses and elephants-- all in that little parking lot). I got it placed, and Sacha, my direct supervisor, came and told me that I had to turn the camper around the other way. This was, I am sure of it, all a part of "the game." But I conceded. And proceeded to attempt a 90-point turn in a 24 foot Four Winns 5000 in a 25-foot narrow corner of a parking lot. In the midst of a moment of supreme frustration, I heard someone knocking on my driver's side window. It was Bello. He asked what I was doing. He had been watching me from his trailer, and had come to my aid. I was tired and on the verge of tears of frustration. I tried to explain to him that I had been parked, and that Sacha had told me to move. "Who's Sacha?" he said. He of course knew who Sacha was... it was an understood "who does Sacha think he is" sort of thing. "Well, my boss for one thing." "Fuck Sacha," was his reply, as he opened my door, took my keys, and proceeded to park my trailer for me. Then noting that my trailer was dangerously angled, went to his own trailer and got levelling blocks so that I could live un-tipped for my last week with the circus. "Bello's Blocks" have become a symbol to me of simple service, the difference a smile can make, and the lasting dream-influence of a well said "Fuck Sacha."

Life Choices, Man

On July 4th last year, I was in San Antonio, Texas, living in the parking lot of the Alamodome. Really.

I was on the road with the circus, and this was my third city—I was still really new, and very unsure of my social position. It took quite a bit of courage for someone as shy as I am to talk to new people. Especially if those people were clowns.

There was no show on the 4th, so the “building” was relatively empty. The animal crew were the only ones who had to work that morning, because holiday or no, animals eat and poop. So early that morning we were there, doing our jobs, in the strangely quiet Alamodome. I walked outside to talk to some of the guys who were having a cigarette break, and some of the clowns started to come by from inside the building. They were NOT happy about being in full costume and large shoes so early in the morning. I was brave enough to ask Molly where they were going, and she said they were going to be in the parade. A clown would come out, mumbling and trying to balance a muffin, a flowered suitcase, and perhaps a beach ball while making final costume adjustments. One particular clown, who I found amusing simply because he had blue hair,to which I am quite partial, seemed particularly put out. He was carrying an oversized plastic beach pail and shovel, a banana, and trying to light a cigarette. He stopped in front of where I was standing to gather himself together. He was cursing under his breath. So I held mine, and tentatively suggested, “you could stay here with us and clean up elephant poop, “ with as much irony as I dared muster in the presence of a clown. He turned to me and shrugged, “life choices, man. Life choices.”

The View From My Room

“Since I have the day off tomorrow, I think I’ll go to Florence.” As the words left his lips, I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing and crying all at the same time. I get excited when I have time to go to Target. But Florence? Italy!?!? J. is one of my dearest friends on the earth. He just lives a very different reality from my own. He is going to cruise the world. Literally, around the world. And get paid to do it. Granted, this is a result of YEARS of training and a natural God-given talent that allows him to “sing for his supper,” a job only a handful of people in the world can do. And he’s good at it. However, of all the terrible places to rehearse, Italy is not quite up there with Orem Jr. High and the basement at the SCERA. This is why I have pent-up bitterness. Good-natured, kind, loving, ( and not true crazy-hateful) BITTERNESS. I wish I could sing. I really do. That is one of the things I have always wanted in my life. I wish I could earn my place in a job which, while extremely difficult and biased and unsteady, allowed me to spend 8 months on a luxury cruise ship. I don’t for a moment pretend that it isn’t hard, that being alone far from friends and family and Taco Bell isn’t going to be extremely difficult. And that he won’t work HARD, that he isn’t already. But I’d be willing to give it a go. It would be worth it on the first day off when I got to run off to, well, Florence. And he hasn’t even seen A Room With A View! I told him I may have to rethink our friendship—how could he go to Florence (not even for the first time, I might add) without understanding George and Lucy? Without knowing why I want postcards from Santa Croce? And why I would throw them into the Arno? So instead, I will plan my time so that I can go buy the DVD of A Room With A View for him, live vicariously through his fantastic adventures, and dream of the day I get to do the same.

Chickens

This is Zebo (short for "Gazebo"), our umbrella cockatoo at work. He is crazy, and a little bit in love with me. I put this pretty bow on his head, and introduced him to a new friend. I call Zebo the White Chicken, so this is his new pal the Rubber Chicken. Zebo loves to sing, particularly Gilbert and Sullivan songs. He isn't really great with lyrics nor tune, but he sings with all his heart. Shouldn't we all?

The Dash

I once listened to a friend give a talk on “the dash”, meaning the part of your life that comes between birth and death: Heather Riggs, 1974-???. He talked about the dash being the important stuff—what would make up your dash? We are moving out of the family house. It has been a long, drawn-out, and rather painful process. I was not ready to go through my mom’s things. They were still too closely connected with her; clothes still had her smell, scraps of paper and the backs of envelopes were covered with her quickly jotted notes, treasures were still where she so lovingly place them. But I have been forced, by necessity, to do just what I didn’t want to—sort, stack, and carry THINGS. When they are taken out of their place, they become just that—things. They are not the person my mother was, they are not the memories that I have. Without the backdrop of home, they are different, foreign.
In the attic today, I read something, written in a child’s hand, in chalk on the steeply slanted ceiling. It reads “We love our house. The Riggs 1975-- …” and is signed by all four children. It was written probably 15 years ago. It isn’t the moving out of the house that is so difficult (although have you seen those trees???), it is the leaving of the backdrop to the Dash. The walls of the Yellow House have been the backdrop to 30 years in the life of our family—they have seen new babies born, first steps taken, childhood traumas solved, teenage angst suffered; holidays, game nights, the birth of almost 30 puppies, 2 horses, and one unexpected litter of pet rats all took place there. Its walls have echoed laughter, crying, expressions of love and anger, recently the wailing of truest sorrow. It has sheltered countless “homeless” friends in need of family, its kitchen has fed thousands, it roof and walls protected against the chest-deep snow of my childhood and the howling winds of 30 winters. We have sat in front of the hearth, bricks laid by my father’s hand, and been warmed. We have sought refuge from the world. The Dash, in this case, is the tale of a family—from marriage to death. It is the home that sent me away to live alone in a foreign land and which held in its image the vision of perfection. Its gabled roof has welcomed me home from countless adventures around the world. Its uniquely yellow exterior is the backdrop to golden summer memories and postcard winter scenes. The yard is the final resting place to beloved pets, one grave dug and closed as recently as June. It is where I first felt the pain of young love, and first learned about true loss. The Dash which opened with a new, young family ends now with a family scattered around the world, a family that has experienced loss, and a family that now, must find a new backdrop for the rest of the dash.

My Horse Friend

I went to the pasture last night to see my horses. It was cold. One of the first truly cold nights of the season. The first of many more to come. The air was crystal clear and the light from the stars and almost-full moon was sharp and seemed to prick my cheeks as I looked upwards. The pasture is quite far from any houses or buildings, so it is remote and silent. Everything between the lake and the mountains seemed to sink into the earth, and there was nothing in between where I stood and the base of Timp. The horses were far out in the pasture, so I had to walk a way out in the deep grass. I was whistling and calling to them, and searching in the moonlight to see the herd. I finally caught sight of them, a few hundred yards off, at about the same time they became aware of my presence. The first movement I saw was Flash. It was a sort of fulfilling of my childhood horse dreams—the great alabaster stallion running towards me, ears pricked and tail fanned out behind him. And he was mine. He was answering my call. A thrill came over me, the result of years and years of horse books, Black Stallion movies, model horses, riding lessons, and girlish dreams lying under the peach trees of our orchard. Flash came running up, eager to show off, display the herd he has now come to lead, but mostly, and amazingly enough, to greet me—his person. Little Fox was right behind him. They came up, puffs of breath rising from their great nostrils, and greeted me with soft nickers and the blowing of horse-kisses. It was a moment of great validation for me. I have had a fear that they would forget me, that these two pets of mine would find that they loved living a life wild and free of fences and saddles and work. But the amazing thing about these two is that they want me still to be a part of their herd. Fox would greet me every night at the yellow house with a quiet whinny and kisses on my ear. Flash knew the sound of my car as I would pull up to the stable. Last night, Flash searched my pockets for treats. Fox stood with his chin on my shoulder and let me hug his neck. There is a power in having something so strong and proud allow you to love it. It shares that strength. It is a partnership—the same partnership I feel when I ride—the feeling of the horse beneath me, the power which I am guiding, the way I can move in a way so much stronger and swifter than I can on my own. And all of it is possible because this great horse has chosen to allow me to be his partner. And his friend.

Flash the Wonder Horse

I spent four very long, hot, humid months working for Ringling Brothers Barnum & Bailey Circus. Red Unit, to be exact. 133rd Edition. I served as the Veterinary Technician for the touring unit. I came away with some new and very odd friends, experiences I had never wanted, and one large, white four-legged souvenir. Flash.

Flash has been with Ringling for most of his 20 years. He was trained by the late animal trainer Gunther Gebel Williams. His trick is hind-legging, or rearing and walking on his hind legs. You can see him in action here (yes, thats him, plume and all). That is what he did, with a special cameo at the beginning of the liberty horse act. He then performed with 4 other horses in Ring One. He has been doing the same job since I was in Jr. High.

The thing about Flash is that he was not a popular horse in the stable. He is an Arabian, which is a smallish breed. Most of the other stallions in the stable were Lippizaners, and were much larger than him. Flash was a nervous wreck. He was constantly fighting off life-threatening attacks from one of the other horses, and had to assert himself vocally whenever another horse passed his stall. He had ulcers. He was very, very thin. He had the very best of veterinary care, had test after test done, but he was as healthy as, well, a horse.

Last fall, the Blue Unit was in Salt Lake City and I went meet the Vet Tech on that show. We had talked on the phone, but never met. She told me that the Red Unit was retiring all the liberty horses from Rings One and Three, and just keeping the center ring act. They had placed all the horses but Flash. I knew it was meant to be. So we worked out the paperwork and he was "mailed" to me. He was in Massachussetts with the show at the time, so he was transported cross country by horse movers and delivered to my door! He was my baby from the minute he arrived. He was gentle and obedient. He even loved to do his tricks, still. He was still vocal for the first few months, but he settled in nicely to non-showbiz life. He gained a few hundred pounds. He made horse friends. He rolled in the grass and lived in an apple orchard. Flash has recently made the move to a huge pasture by a lake. He has his best friend Fox Mulder, my other little Arabian, always by his side, and a whole herd of horses to tell his circus stories to.

Hoops and Yoyo

I don't remember how I came across these guys originally, but they make me laugh until it hurts sometimes. This was once their homepage on hallmark.com. Send and e-card. Support this duo. I sure do love dingo jokes!

The Brown Dog

This is Kiste. She is contemplating life. What a great dog.

HeathHair-- Living and Dyeing [sic]

I just cut my hair off again. It was part of the downsizing of my life, I guess. I parted with the Locks of Love 10-inch minimum without batting an eye. This was my second donation in as many years-- I may become a professional hair grower. It took many years and many, many tears to realize that hair, in most cases, grows back. Granted, there is nothing quite as bad as a bad haircut, but, the thing is, there is very little with hair that can't be changed. My hair has had many shapes, forms, shades, and styles. But my true inner-hair is just this side of strawberry blonde, mid-length, and tucked behind my ears. I am currently sporting the short version of my true hair. Short is fine. As I said, it grows back.

I make my grandmother cry every time I change my hair. The worst was when I dyed it blue. I ALWAYS wanted blue hair. Not old lady in flower-print dress blue, but vibrant, true blue. I had the chance and excuse to experience that very hair adventure just before the dawning of the New Millennium (that makes a regular New Year sound big and worthy of The Blue Hair). I was working at the Sundance Film Festival (edgy hair accepters there), NOT going to BYU (for the first time in a LONG time), and was feeling just enough self-loathing that if it was ugly, I could tell myself that I deserved it. There's always that to fall back on. So I did it. I went to my dear friend Suzanne who has become the quintessential Riggs Girls/Extended Friend-Circle Stylist. We discussed. Then we bleached. To get the true blue that I wanted, we had to start with white. I looked like the albino from Princess Bride. Wheelbarrow full of Wesley and all. Then the blue. I was so scared when that towel came off my head. But when it did come off, my hair was FABULOUS. Really. Better than I had imagined. It made my eyes just strikingly, well, blue. It was great with my skin. It was sassy. It was different. And still conservative enough that people didn't really even notice. Really. It was permanent. And it lasted for 3 days. By the third day, the only thing that was blue was my shower and my towels. My hair had faded to a slightly blue tinged grey-- the very same as the aforementioned old lady in FPD blue. I was horrified. I went back to Suzanne. She was horrified. We tried for days, then weeks to cover that blasted grey hair with anything. The worst was when we tried dyeing it a vibrant red-orange to cover everything. That stuck to my newly grown 1 /4 inch roots. But nothing else-- picture lavender hair with orange roots. Gorgeous. This led to the shortest haircut of my life, leaving just those orange roots. And you thought I was fighting off the lesbians before....

Having lived through the Blue Hair Trauma of 2000 without any permanent scars (and only one picture-- the irony is that all my New Years pictures from that year are black and white. Of course), I can now live through any hair trauma. But for the time being, I will stick with the color God gave me, and continue the growing and cutting, waxing and waning, and living, and for now, not dyeing. One can only make one's grandma cry so often, right?

Remembering to Forget

When my mom first passed away, which was truly not that long ago-- it can still be counted in weeks-- it was the biggest, most important thing in my life. It still is, and likely will be for a very long time, forever. But I can’t “allow” it to be at the forefront of my every thought anymore. My life can longer revolve around her loss, funeral plans, arrangements, the business of death, or sitting with old friends trying to process what is happening. I have to go to work and run errands and shop for things that my mom will never know I own. As the day she left gets further and further in the past, it becomes less real that she is gone. There is no longer the newness of it all, the sharp, shooting pangs of hurt and sorrow and disbelief. It is now a part of me, or rather a missing part of me--like an amputated limb. I can still feel the throbbing ache of her absence. When her death was new and surreal, I wouldn’t have to remind myself that she was gone. It was too near. But now, I almost forget. It is like getting a new pair of glasses. All you can see for the first few days is the frames in the periphery and the sharpness of everything. But eventually you get used to seeing the world through them. I pick up the phone to call her. I think of her first when I have a story to tell. The thing that I notice the most is that I want to take pictures of things to show her later. I always carry a camera, and it is like she is away and would hate to miss out on what I am seeing. I have literally held my camera in my hands and as I look through the viewfinder, I realize that she no longer has mortal eyes to see the things I want so much to share with her. Not that I can possibly forget that she is gone. It seems to be all I can remember.

Before the Gathering

For my mother, July 5, 2005


There is a certain valley just North of the Utah border in Idaho. The valley is small, pastoral. The highway runs along the mountains, and you look to the West across the valley, looking down, as if into a miniature landscape display. There are farms with their rows of poplars, a small, tidy town, and miles and miles of hayfields. Hayfields live and die in a constant cycle: they grow, are mown, are baled, then grow again. This cycle will happen three or four times in a season– the alfalfa grows, and just as the purple blossoms appear, it is mown down in rows and left to dry in the sun. This is a delicate time– if the mown hay is rained on, it will be ruined, unusable. If it is allowed to lie too long in the field without being baled, crucial nutrients are bleached out by the sun and lost. When the proper time comes, the golden hay is gathered and bound into bales according to the farmer’s need and the hay’s purpose. The bales lie, row on row, sometimes rectangular, sometimes round, always equal. The neat, even bales are left in the field, the new alfalfa already beginning to grow around them, until they can be gathered in and stored.
This is my favorite time– before the gathering. Row upon row of golden bales, neat, even, peaceful. Perhaps it is something in the quality of the light at haying time, as the afternoon sunlight catches the dust in the air, perhaps it is the promise of golden sustenance laid up for the dark winter months, perhaps it is the order in this process. I do not know, just that I am comforted by the sight.
In this certain valley, nestled among the haying fields, there is a cemetery. One might miss it. I don’t know how many times I did– it’s rows of even, rectangular stones mirror and become a part of the golden hayfields which surround it, their bales awaiting the gathering. The part of me that loves haying time is also the part of me that recognizes the connection between a hayfield and a cemetery. There is the laying up for the future, the delicate timeline of the cycle, and the knowledge that when it is time, the treasures that have been laid up will be brought forth, and that day will be golden.