Desert Museum: The Fauna

As I've mentioned, we're currently in Arizona for a week. Yesterday Husband and I took my parents with us to visit the Desert Museum, to the west of Tucson. None of us had ever been there before, so it was all new discovery for us. What a wonderful afternoon we had!

The first stop was the snake and wildflower house. Interesting combination, eh? I told my mom I needed the wildflowers to calm my heart after viewing the snakes. The above snake is the "hypomelanistic western diamondback." According to the tag, the light color is due to a lack of pigment in this snake. It also lacks the light and dark banding pattern just before the rattle, which is typical of other rattlesnakes.
A little further on, we came upon a window into the perch of the mountain lion. This one was calmly looking out over the domain, with folk down below looking up at him.
The view from below was lovely; you can see the window behind him through which we were able to look out over the lion's ears.
What a gorgeous animal! This living museum is set up really beautifully so that families can get around easily and get a sense of what the wildlife and plants in Arizona are like.
Prairie dogs! These little guys were so cute. A visitor from Colorado was standing nearby and remarked that the prairie dogs in this exhibit were the fattest he'd ever seen in his life--and he's observed them in Colorado as well. I'd have to agree with him; our Washington prairie dogs are skinnier, too.
Of course, these guys usually have to run pretty fast because of all the predators that are after them. The prairie dogs in the Desert Museum are quite protected from the myriad of animals that are out to get them in their typical habitat.
We saw some ocelots, but they were hidden in a dark crack of the rock where they hang out at the Desert Museum, so they didn't show up too well in my picture taking. But then we turned around and saw several employees working with this Harris hawk. There was one where we were, and two more way down the hill in various spots among the cacti. One would whistle, and the hawk took off, displaying his impressive wingspread and beautiful form as he soared in to perch on a gloved hand.
I think this was the first time I saw a beaver up close. A nice thing about the Desert Museum is that they've set up the habitats so that you can watch the animals from above, and from below as well. This beaver was having a great time swimming around and practically performing for the people looking through the glass into the water where he wheeled and turned in front of them. I love that flat tail. It reminded me of a picture book by Harry Baerg called "Benny the Beaver," a book I loved to read as a child.
The river otter was in quite a different mood from the beaver. He was curled up for a nap, looking quite comfortable.
A little later, from the window into his pool, we watched the otter swim around, seemingly grazing for something on the far side of the pool. He didn't come over and mug for the cameras like the beaver did, though.

Missing Context

The visitor center from the caverns entranceI was so angry at an Asian man today, I went into tunnel vision complete with red prickles up through my neck and scalp, and I nearly beaned him. For those of you who know me well, you'll be shocked and disbelieving, I know. I usually adore and idealize people from Asia, where I was born and grew up. They feel like family to me. So why was I that angry? Here's the story.

We were at Kartchner Caverns state park here in Arizona, waiting for our tour to begin. I had approached a model of the hills and the rooms in the caverns. I briefly noticed a number of loudly chattering Asian kids (speaking Cantonese, as best I could tell) circling the model, banging on the buttons that light up different parts of the model to acquaint the viewer with the layout of the caves. That's a bit rude, I thought. They're more badly behaved than most Asian kids I know. And then I looked for a place where I could get in close to at least one side of the model and get acquainted with the caverns via the buttons.

I reached in and touched a button, seeing where it lit up in the back of the model. Around it other buttons were lighting up wildly as the kids continued to bash on the buttons, but after a couple of pushes I recognized where my button was activating the model.Then one of the kids slapped my hand away and went for the buttons where I'd been exploring. Okay... I moved over to some other buttons, ignoring the rudeness and continuing to look into the 3-D model.

After a minute an Asian man approached me. "You don't touch my child's hand," he said. His accent was either Hong Kong or Taiwan.

I looked up, startled. "Excuse me?"

"You don't touch my child's hand," he repeated, clearly furious. "You are very rude. You don't move children away. You are the adult."

"I did not touch your child's hand, " I said.

"Yes, you did," he said.

"Excuse me," I said, my voice rising. Out of the corner of my eye I could see my husband approaching, alerted by my tone of voice. "I did not touch your child's hand. Your kid slapped my hand away, not the other way around."

"You are the adult," the man said. "You should be considerate of the children."

I was seeing red by now. "Sir. I did not shove your child aside," I insisted with rising voice and gritted teeth. "Your child shoved my hand away, and that's exactly what happened."

I was so angry, I don't even recall how it ended. He didn't back down. I didn't back down. I walked away with my husband, trying hard to breathe deeply and calm myself, and once we were out of earshot I turned to Husband and asked, "What would you have done?"

"I probably would have gone on the attack," he said. "I probably would have told him off for his rude, misbehaving kids."

The incident wrecked my tour. It wrecked my afternoon. I stewed about it for the rest of the day. I tried to figure out why I had become so angry that I'd actually felt one of the most intense physical anger reactions I've ever experienced. So far I can think of several things.

One is that I have always seen myself as respectful of kids--it's a matter of pride with me, an experienced teacher of children, that I treat young ones with respect--and it made me furious to be cast in the light of someone who would mistreat a child. Second, the man didn't ask me if I'd done it; he accused me. And he didn't listen to my explanation or clarification when it was given, but instead lectured me as if I was some worthless abusive trash-woman assaulting his precious little hellion.And finally, I was deeply disappointed and confused at that behavior from an Asian. Asia is still home in my heart, and I know as well as Asians do that you don't confront people aggressively if you perceive some slight has been given in public. If you feel mistreated, you tuck yourself or your kid safely aside and move on. As I told Husband, it was so odd to be publicly verbally attacked by an Asian man who would not let up. It felt as though I was some symbol for him of whatever mistreatment has been done to him or his people by someone who looks like me. I just could not figure it out. I'm sure there's an explanation that makes all the sense in the world from the perspective of the man.

Sometimes a little piece of missing context would help.

Christmas in Arizona

Yesterday we left the snowy Northwest and traveled to Arizona for a week with Husband's mom.

There's something so good about getting away from the usual surroundings, seeing the colors of the desert, and reconnecting with family stories. And then there's the enjoyment of watching the hummingbirds at the feeder, sleeping in in the mornings, and waking up to the delicious prospect of a whole day without someone else controlling one's schedule, crises walking in the office door to be solved, and committee meetings to attend.

This is good.

How Do Ya Like Them Apples?

When the leaves fell, I remarked to Husband, "Ken didn't harvest his apples!" From our window beside the kitchen sink we can see Ken's trees just across the fence, some branches bending low over to our side. They were bare, except for a truly fine unharvested bunch of apples.

Ken had knee surgery on both knees this fall. Friends from church kept his grass mowed during the time he couldn't tend to his yard, and more recently we've shoveled his driveway. But none of us thought to harvest his apples. I envisioned them rotting right there on the tree and dropping onto our side, making a bit of a mess. However, being a rather laid-back sort about our yard--other than wanting it regularly mowed--I didn't spend further thought on it.

Then yesterday I looked out of the window and was completely transfixed. Ken's apple trees, bowed down under a load of snow, were under a full-scale assault by fluffed-out starlings. Not that I know what a starling looks like; I trust my husband's powers of bird identification. The birds were enthusiastically making quick work of the now-frozen apples. Some of the fruit was already half pecked away.

So, in the end, our inattention resulted in a treat for Nature. I kinda like it when things turn out that way.

Winter Sets In

This is the view from our bedroom door onto the deck this morning. The icicles concern me, as that means our roof is not as well-insulated as we understood it would be when we built this house. They are, however, pretty in the sunshine.
Out front, we've been spending some significant time plowing the driveway.

Me: "Husband, why was it again that we wanted our driveway built three cars wide?"
Our chimes look like they've been joined by the many icicles. I wonder, if I used a little hammer could I get different musical notes out of those icicles? I seem to remember a stalactite organ in one of the caverns we visited as tourists when I was a kid.
This is why I don't go out there and try. I'd get snow in my shoes. Some say we have 12 inches, some say fifteen. The web says it's zero degrees Fahrenheit out there this morning. And they're predicting another 4-6 inches of snow tonight.

I'm sort of feeling like I've moved back to Finland for the winter!

Christmasy Coat

Our library dressed in a lovely Christmasy coatWe've had snow and cold temperatures (it was 1 degree Fahrenheit last night as I was leaving the church up the hill) and more is on the way for the next few days. I'm thinking it's going to be a white--and cold--Christmas.

The Do-Over Button

"If you had a 'Do-Over' button, what one event in your life would you like to have a second chance at doing better?"

This question was listed recently at The One-Minute Writer, a blog that gives a daily writing prompt. The catchy subtitle: "You have 1,440 minutes a day. Use one of them to write." I dropped by later to see what people had posted as their one-minute response to the question, and read through the poignant thoughts there.

Lynne said:

For me, it is definitely involving parenting. There are many times while in learning mode, that I wish I could have done differently where my two daughters are concerned. I was not there at times because I was too involved in work or myself. I would give anything to do it over and give back that time to them.

Sherri posted thoughts along the same lines:

I would "do over" the time spent with my young sons ( who are now grown and out of the home). I wish I would have listened closer, held them longer, kissed them more often, given them more WISDOM, less rules, and would have just SLOWED down and enjoyed the moment even more.

Some of the responses were surprising to me. Trudi said:

As morbid as it sounds, my "do-over" would be to have taken a camera with me to my Mom's funeral. She looked like she felt better than she had in a very long time, and I wish I would have captured that.

Sometimes the regrets were not so much about making things right, but were a bit more self-serving in making the writer feel better about himself or herself. For example, Mike wrote:

There's one specific event, which I cannot recount in a minute, that involved an ex-girlfriend and something I said. I would take that back, not to get her back, but just so I didn't feel so awful about it years later.

Ares wanted the Do-Over button to make her life feel better, too:

I would like to undo (or redo, for vengeful purposes) the things I've done to my little nerve-breaking brother. At the first place, I was the one who inspired him to be as monstrous. And now it's backfiring at me.

And then there were the people who regretted letting family or society pressure them into not following their dreams for a once-in-a-lifetime event:

I would do over my wedding day - same guy but completely different setting. I would place much less emphasis on etiquette and more on celebrating my love for him. I would sing him a song. I would make sure there was ice cream along with the cake. I would wear the wedding gown that I liked the best instead of the one my mother liked best. And we would drive away from the casual reception at the lake on jet ski's - not from a hotel ballroom in a fancy car.

One that I found heartbreaking was Devani's:

When my first son was stillborn, I spent hours trying to make a lifetime of memories. I nuzzled his neck, gobbled his little toes, blew raspberries on his belly. But I forgot to open his eyes. If I could do one thing over in my life, I would look into my son's eyes.

Another one that made me sad was this one:

I would have said no. I wouldn't have fallen prey to the ideas and standards that surrounded me... ideas so far below my own. I wouldn't have gone back with him that night. I wouldn't have made the mistake of giving him something he didn't even deserve - something I can never get back. Now I'm not, nor will I ever be the same. & every day is a constant struggle to regain faith in myself - to fill up the void in place of my heart, and to hope someday I'll find someone who will help me right the wrongs... and will love me, mistake and all.

Deb's was sad, too; there are so many of us who are letting significant moments go by when we should be spending time loving people:

If I had a "do over' button: I would have done things differently when my mom had Alzheimer's. I would have visited more often, I would have spent much more time with her. I would have quit my job and taken care of her. I would have told her I loved her more often. I would have hugged her. I would have sat with her and held her hand. I would have tried to show her I loved her more. I have many, many regrets about that time.

Ever since I saw this prompt I've been thinking about the events for which I would like a Do-Over button. Instead of describing those here, I thought that I'd load up this post and invite you to think about it, too. For some situations in my life it's too late because someone has gone beyond my reach or there's too much water under the bridge, so to speak.

But, for all of us--as long as we're still living and breathing--there's an opportunity at least in a situation or two to set some things right, or do something right the first time, before we're left only with regrets. Seems like Christmas is a good time to take care of those.

Edifying Conversations

Ah, the odd things that flow through our conversations at home. Yesterday's example came after I'd been catching up on reading Christmas letters. Husband was sitting at his computer, working on his grad study. Stepson was settled into the other Lazyboy starting to study for his finals this week.

Me: It's hard for me to understand how people can change their names late in life, like after they've gone by a different first name all their lives.

Stepson: Yeah. I thought about doing that when I moved back here. I thought: "Hey! I could say, 'My name's Joey*, but you can call me Tiger Claw.'"

Sharing a Birthday

Forty-ahem years ago this picture was taken. It's one of the few birthdays I ever had in which my brother either wasn't present or wishing me a happy birthday over the phone. As far as I can tell, I was quite happy to celebrate that year with my single gargantuan candle and my pink blow-up giraffe (it was pink, wasn't it?).Eight days after that first birthday picture was taken, my little brother arrived. Being eight days apart in a month that already contained the festivities of Christmas, my parents (read: "my mom") soon decided that there would be one birthday party to celebrate both of us.
So on one year we both blew out the candles on my birthday, and on the next year we blew out the candles on my brother's birthday. As you can see from the pictures, I was the pushy brat who was concerned about the cake and noodling my way closest to it when the time came to blow out the candles. I don't know how my brother was able to stand me.

Well, sometimes he wasn't.These last three pictures were taken on my last birthday in Thailand, the year I turned five. We moved to Malaysia about 7 months later. It looks to me like my brother managed to nudge his way in closer to the cake by then (although I seem to have grabbed the chair perch). Good for him. It was about time. Isn't he cute, peering out from beside my knees? He probably got closer to the cake this time because I was too busy being all puffed up about my pretty new bride doll. Seems to me my doll was more interesting than the wood train. The problem was, as I recall, that I carelessly left it behind on an airplane on our world travels.

By the way, check out the fact that on this year, my mom apparently made TWO cakes! Wow. The sandwiches and banana Jell-o look pretty good.
Bro, I wish you were here to share a cake today. If you were, I'd let you blow out the candles. I'd make you sandwiches and banana Jell-O if you wanted. I miss you a lot today. Happy Birthday early.

The Sauna and the Butterfly Dress

A backyard saunaStepson wandered around the kitchen a week or so ago and launched into a paean to saunas--specifically the one he used to use at the health club in Portland. Having lived in Finland and been back many times to visit, I am as much or more of a fan of saunas than he is. But to me, a sauna located anywhere else than Finland doesn't seem culturally right, so I've never gone to one anywhere else.

As Stepson sang the praises of a good hot sauna, the topic seemed to shift, and eventually it became a full-fledged sales pitch on adding a sauna at our house. "My friend built one in his backyard down in California," he said. "I bet he'd let me have it."

Well now. Let me paint the picture for you as I saw it. Stepson moves back home at the age of 24, going back to school for another degree--this time in nursing--and not only refills the empty nest, but brings two cats that leave long hair all over the place and terrorize my poor kitty cat. And then he puts on the pressure for us to allow him to drag a homemade sauna up from some other part of the country and plonk it down in the backyard for his personal use.

"How would you get water and electricity to it?" I ask.

"It would be a wood sauna," he says.

"How would you get the wood?" his dad asks.

Stepson looks at his dad like he's crazy. "What do you mean?" he asks in the tone of voice that conveys, That was a dumb question.

"I mean, where would you get wood?"

"I'd buy it," says Stepson, who doesn't currently have a job.

By now I'm at the sink, washing dishes and working myself into an emotional lather over the conversation. I know stepson's style. It starts well-meaning, but then we have to take care of whatever is left behind. Let me be clear: I know the sauna would be left behind when all was said and done. It would be the biggest thing we've had to "take care of" after he'd gone on to the rest of his life. Last time there were the personal artifacts, the remnants of ferret pellets, various this-and-that under his bathroom sink, the used oil sitting in cans in the garage.... You get the picture.

"Wouldn't it be cool to have a sauna in the backyard?" he asks.

"No," I say emphatically. "I'm not interested in having a sauna here."

That should do it.

"Why not?" asks stepson.

I ignore the question. I'm not interested should be enough. It's our house. I truly love this guy, but I'm not figuring out how to drag a sauna back up from the backyard and then pawn it off on someone else a few years down the road.

* * * * * * * *

"So what about the butterfly dress?" you ask. "What does that have to do with the sauna?"

Well, let me tell you. My mom may remember this differently, but this is how I remember it:

I think I was 13-ish years old. I was idly flicking through dresses in my mom's cupboard. I was bored, looking for novelty, just being my typically egocentric teenage self. As I pawed through the clothing, trying on various pieces and enjoying the fact that I now fit my mom's clothes, I came across a dress made of white material with a colorful butterfly print.

I loved it. It was cool. It struck me as stylish.

"Mama, can I have this dress?" I asked. "I like it."

"No," she said.

This may not shock you, but it shocked me. My mother--according to my perceptions--was normally generous and giving, and would have handed over anything I expressed an interest in. Why had she said No? I really wasn't asking for that much. I tried again.

"But it looks nice on me," I said.

"And I like it, too," she said. "I had it made for me."

"I'd wear it often," I cajoled.

"No. You have plenty of other clothes," she told me. And she was right.

I remember to this day my surprise at the fact that Mama would deny my request, that she would insist on keeping things the way she'd arranged them for her own enjoyment. I'd run smack dab into a boundary. I wasn't getting whatever I wanted just because I was growing up and refining my persuasive skills.

* * * * * * *

And so, a week or so ago, as I put my foot down about the homemade sauna in the back yard, the image of the butterfly dress came to mind. And I thought wryly to myself that things seem to have come full circle.

This dress looks surprisingly like the one I coveted, as I remember it.

Ode to the Ones Who Stay Put

“Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.”

The quote from Mark Twain is seen as inspirational and touted as a reason to strike bravely into the unknown. And while I think there is a place for throwing off the bowlines and sailing away, today I want to honor the people who do not.

There are people who stay in their jobs year after year, doing the same things, at most tweaking something here and there so that it works better. They're dependable. They get the job done. They are solid. They are servants in their approach and encouragers to those who work around them.

I have the great privilege of working with some of these people. While they won't get headlines and probably won't get accolades, they represent a lot of what is good and solid in our society. They continue to do their best to produce excellent quality in the tasks that have been set before them, sometimes even pushing through in spite of difficult people, lack of recognition and tough personal times. And yet they remain faithful. They are my heroes. They have my admiration and thanks.

A Pink Mist of Spirituality

Image can be found hereI found this quote in some reading I was doing yesterday about sermon preaching, and really liked the power of it:

The Gospel does not cover the universal condition, which is sordid, messy and disheveled, with a pink mist of spirituality. Instead, it acts upon the pressure-points of individual lives, challenging attitudes to matters so down to earth as sex, ambition, power, race and money." --Colin Morris, in "The Word and the Words," (London: Epworth Press, 1975. Page 57)