All posts by Cherry

In complete and utter defiance

It was a snow day. For children set free from the classroom, a lovely idea. For many others, a snow-day means an avalanche of additional work. Rising before dawn to access road conditions. Administrative work of cancellations and re-schedules and no-shows. If one has a critical healthcare job and must go to work, wondering who will watch the kids. For contract workers and some hourly workers, the added stress of no pay that day. Snow days may be beautiful, but snow-days are extra work and less pay.

As often happens with a snow day, her extra work began the day before. Sunday. A day of rest with up to 12 inches of new snowfall expected. It was snowing when she rose. She shoveled off the first few inches, took a hike and returned and shoveled the next two inches. Bathed. Pursued the practice of music. Shoveled snow again in partnership with a neighbor. Made a last sweep of the sidewalks before darkness fell and then slept the usual sleep of an aged snorer.

Rising Monday morning, she realized the weather had not rested at all. Again she joined her neighbors to clear the sidewalks and automobile windshields. Physical exercise enough, but for mental health, she insisted on pursing a walk anyway. The sun was out. The snow glistening.  “I am not going to let the urgent demands of snow removal and appointment cancellations rob me of the enjoyment and beauty of this day!” she said trudging forward.

Accordingly, she walked to the hardware store and purchased a snow saucer. Visited the grocery for the requisite essentials; milk, bread, olive oil, soup crackers, bacon. Transported her purchases home on the snow saucer across the packed snow; tow-rope in one hand and hiking pole in the other. Stowed the groceries and headed to the nature trail with the saucer, in complete and utter defiance to the knowledge that office work was calling; calling several hours earlier due to snow cancellations. But beauty was also calling. Fun was calling. For too many years she failed to heed the call of beauty or of fun. She is now an old lady. Fun cannot wait any longer. The office can wait its proper turn.

When is one old enough to break the rules? Those rules. The rules one sets for herself. The rules such as, complete all your work before play, clean your plate before desert, respond to the urgent needs of the moment before meeting your own needs.

Finding inspiration in the difficult and mundane

It is a gray day, but nevertheless, she took a walk in an old familiar place. Not in the beauty of the town she loves to call home; but in gray dirt and shale, the scent of mud flats and sodden tumbleweeds; the endless racket of commerce without artistry, vitriol without understanding.

This is not her home, but this is the place she grew up, graduated high school, was raised and peered, and taught by people who didn’t really understand who she was meant to be – only who they thought she should be. She spent far too many years here-not only in growing up but in boomeranging anytime life or relationships treated her meanly. Some would say this is her hometown. It has been a refuge of sorts; but a very prickly refuge.

She visits. Because people she knows and loves live here. And because people she knows have died here. But today is not a day for her to die, because this is not the place she would choose to be when she dies. She wants to die in a beautiful place. And because she wants to be alive while she yet lives, she showered and ate breakfast and took a walk. She walked along roads now paved that used to be rural wandering paths. She knows these canal banks and bicycle jumps and crisscross roads. This is not paradise for her. But walking or hiking is always a good choice to iron out the kinks of one’s emotions and thinking. By and by the forward strides pumped the blood and oxygen to her heart and brain and she began to breath deep, to be thankful for the many miles she logged on these very roads and paths. Wow, so much water under the bridge for being a desert region. Here is the road she walked almost daily while recovering from marriage number one. But back then it was only a dirt path. There is the 90s brick condo she coveted for her own independent living space when she re-lived here one time while trying to get back on her feet. But there, across the road, that’s the brick house that became the home of the character Carolyn Flannery in the book “The Right Woman for the Job.”

Did she really write a book? Yes, she did. She said she was retreating here to write a book, and she did what she said she would do. And now, she doesn’t live here anymore. But she can be grateful, so grateful for the inspiration. And gratitude is the gateway to feeling good, and feeling good leads to effervescing glimmers of happiness. And glimmers, glimmers soon make it a beautiful place.

Keep the good. The good is as much a part of your past as the difficult. Keep the gratitude. And soon, anyplace can be a beautiful place.

Merry Christmas Morn

Merry Christmas Morn! I slept in until 6:30 this morning because I didn’t have to be anywhere. When I did rise, I left the lights off and watched the dawn as it came on. How often does that happen? Not often enough for this lover of solitude. During the night, between deep and dreamful sleep, I experienced feelings of gratitude and thanksgiving. My life is good. Whether I am alone or with family, friends, or acquaintances; my life is good. Before tucking into bed last night, I spent a couple hours reading a new book, lately received as a Christmas gift. What a treat. A new book. Free time to read. Time for a walk or a hike. A larder stocked with traditional Christmas treats, made from generations old recipes – the culinary gift of a roommate exploring upcycling, recycling, vintage crafting and traditional homemaking and kitchen arts. Before she left to spend Christmas Day with her other next of kin, she asked, “Now how many of these are you going to limit yourself to in the next two days? Because, I will leave that many and take all the rest with me.” How can you go wrong with a plan like that? I am the grateful recipient of two divinities per day and two Christmas cookies per day. Merry Christmas! May you absolutely luxuriate in gratitude and love and peace and joy!

If you missed it before, my Christmas Card to you is here on Youtube. Glimmers of Gratitude

So you want a Christmas tree

“I’ll just wait in the car,” he said. “I didn’t bring footwear for hiking.” He flew in from Seattle the day before Thanksgiving with the requisite winter coat on his back and a small backpack to stow under the seat of the plane. It was now two and a half days past Thanksgiving and four hours before departure time. “No problem,” we said, Christmas Tree permit in hand. “It will be fun.” “We know the area. We’ll find a good place to park and a perfect tree 101 feet away.”

But first: First the wilderness ranger went to church to be the drummer for the praise band. First I went to the French Bakery to play the piano for three hours and a half. Then he and I ate lunch and waited for the drummer to come home. Time to go. But first he pulled on wool socks over the cotton pair. First the wilderness ranger had to unload the camping gear from her four-wheel-drive truck. Then she ate lunch. And that is how it came to be we set out four hours before departure time to find the perfect Christmas tree.

But first: We needed to stop by the One Acre Wood to get the tree saw and hatchet. No problem. We were at the One Acre Wood only three days ago on Thanksgiving afternoon. Eight inches of new snow had fallen in the interim. With full confidence she drove her knobby tires over the snowy barricade caused by the neighborhood snowplow and began the descent to the camping shed and tool chest. I jumped out and loaded tools onboard. Jumped in, buckled my seatbelt and after slippery attempts at each of the ramps out of the circle drive, and critical assessment, we found we were – – stuck.  

Gentle Reader, he did not – he did not wait in the car. Nor did I. Shovel by shovel, bucket of gravel by bucket of gravel, mud mat by transferred mud mat; we advanced car length by car length up the slippery incline until the angle of ascent became manageable. 90 minutes of intense workout for three persons each well-conditioned for their respective ages. Some will not need to go to the gym for a few days. All will need a hot tub. And, yes, thanks to forethought and planning, we made it to the airport on time – but we didn’t pass home. And we don’t have a Christmas tree.

Success! A week later. The wilderness ranger completed the mission alone.

The Last throes of summer

Have you heard of the last rose of summer?

Or, maybe they mean the last throes of summer,

When we are enthralled with August or September;

Do you remember?

When Nature, green and lush as ever she will be,

Beckons with every last charm to linger,

Clutch her in your arms.

Savor all the plump and juicy days before the fall –

Our fall into the quintessential bliss that fills our eyes and

Lusty souls with harvest abundance of

Round pumpkins, golden squash, rosy apples,

Full comfort and contentment

Before the leaves desert the trees and fall and

We begin a fattened sleep beneath the blanket that is snow.

But for now, we linger in the throes –

The last throes of Summer.

Cherry Odelberg September 13, 2023

It’s a Book: Precious Journey releases at long last

It is an allegory. It is steampunk. It is a little bit novel. It is now available from Amazon and other major book distributors – also from your favoite bookstore – ask for it. Here is a sample of my favorite characters and my favorite chapter.

Stalking the Sleuth

Traveler was being followed.  He sensed it from the moment he exited the train.  It was a new sensation. For the traveler, open and transparent as he was, was still used to being nearly invisible, sleuthing from the sidelines.  It did not feel like a malicious sort of stalking, it was more like shadowing, anticipating. For instance, how did this person whom he had not yet seen – merely felt the eyes and their constant following of his every move – how did this person know he would be on the train? Traveler had not known himself whether he would drive or ride until a few hours before departure. Traveler stood for a moment on the station platform and wished he had his Convie. What am I thinking, he asked himself.  I have two sturdy legs and walking is so beneficial to clarity of conclusion.

Followed or not, he was hungry. He turned into his favorite establishment on the wharf and ordered a basket of fish and chips and half a pint of the local ale.  Fishing nets and colorful floats adorned the walls. Over the years, hardwood floorboards had been worn to a patina by the constant comings and goings of locals and tourists.  Places this popular rarely have extraneous personal space. Every inch was shared with a constantly undulating crowd.  Traveler was no sooner seated at a table then he was joined in quick succession by three other persons, two male, one female, constantly in motion changing places like musical chairs as an order number was announced or someone spied a friend, waved, and changed position.

Receiving his order, Traveler closed his eyes and savored the fried sea aroma curling up from the steam. Another basket slid onto the table and a sinewy male eased expertly into the neighboring seat.

“What is your interest in my sister?”

            Traveler looked up into cool and intelligent blue eyes and held their gaze for a few seconds.

“Sean Journey, analyst,” said the man, extending a hand.

The traveler shook hands silently, reached for the malt vinegar, fingered a chip and waited.

“You show up in the city and ask background questions of the flakey receptionist. Next, on a road trip, you stop at a little café that just happens to be owned by my parents.  No doubt, they gave you volumes of information couched in opinion. Assuming you were capable of distilling the information from the opinion; your next stop was obviously here, where my sister spent some of the most enjoyable and enlightening years of her life.”

“You have tracked me this far, including following me from the train station. You are an analyst.” Traveler met Sean’s eyes again and continued, “You have to ask what my interest is in your sister?” he paused. “I wear a trench coat, I have a fedora, how is it you did not assume I am a private investigator hired by the man himself to track Precious?”

“Puh!” The analyst nearly spat. “That man never had a modicum of initiative. He could find her easily enough on his own if he cared to take the trouble.”

“He wants her back.”

“He wants her to come back, you mean –without him lifting a finger.”

“You have a close connection with your sister.” It was a statement, not a question.

“My sister is kind and caring. Growing up twenty months apart, it felt like we were twins. She protected me. She is a very loyal person.”

Traveler began, “You say Precious is kind, caring and loyal.  It seems so out of character for her – from what I have learned of her character – that she would leave the man.” Again, it was an observation, not a question, and the traveler took time to bite off a portion of batter-dipped cod and chew thoughtfully.

The analyst fetched a checkered napkin, wiped his mouth and again made eye contact.

“Precious has an Achilles heel.”

Traveler raised an eyebrow.

  “She can’t help rescuing people.”

“That is the compassionate thing to do,” shrugged the traveler.

“Once she rescues them, they make her feel responsible to care for them. When she draws a line and is no longer responsive to plaintive whining, they accuse her of being insensitive.”

Traveler thought back to the helpless wail that first drew his attention to the cave.

“How did she come to connect with the man in the first place?”

“It was here, at the Western Conservatory of Earth Studies. Precious had a work-study assignment in the botany department. She was building the terrace at Salt Park.  It looks out over the bay. The botany department was eradicating noxious weeds and studying plants native to the area. The man, as you already know, was a botany student.  His field study and her work shifts overlapped.

“She was cute.  She had a fascinating set of tools, so he followed her around like a puppy. And she responded to his needs, encouraging him, complimenting him, building him up.”

“So Precious encourages people and builds them up?”

“Yes, she is always adapting and giving the benefit of the doubt. As a result, people depend on her.”

“It is a credit to her strength of character that your mother has not prevailed on her to move back home.”

“Yes. And one of the greatest disappointments of my mother’s life to find that they are not joined at the hip in every opinion.”

Salt Water Park

Traveler’s basket was empty. The two men rose together in a sort of natural synchrony and headed out the door. Traveler set a course for Salt Water Park and Sean Journey fell into step beside him.

“We have dined together with perceptive conversation,” stated Journey, “but you have not yet identified yourself and your interest.”

Again Traveler mused on the oft-asked question. He preferred not to answer directly. There is no succinct and simple way to reply; “I am a traveler, scribe and cycloptic seer for the core.”  It leads only to complication. First, most people think you are joking. The common man, meaning the majority of homo sapiens populating the earth, would guffaw and snort, “You think you go around seeing Cyclops?” Sean Journey was a human of no ordinary intellect. He had shared honestly. The ball was now in Traveler’s court.

“I am a traveler, scribe, and cycloptic seer for the core,” he replied.

“Meaning you work for the Cranial Reservoir,” stated Sean. “Why the qualifier, cycloptic?”

“I am a visionary of only one eye,” said Traveler.  “Were I to see with both eyes, I would be omniscient, omnipotent. As it is, I observe wisdom. I am able to see imperfectly into the behavior and motivation of others. Once glimpsed, the motivation and personality fascinates me. I travel to ferret out the needed wisdom for each relationship observed.  I scribe. The results of seeing and scribing are uploaded to the global Cranial Reservoir – all the collected wisdom of the ages.”

“You upload directly to the Cranial Reservoir?” queried Sean.

Traveler smiled, “There is a good bit of residue and affinity for the past in me.  I first make my notes on papyrus tablet. The very act of writing is stimulating to thought – therapeutic to confusion. Once I reach the conclusion, my results teletransport to the core cranium.”

“They pay you to upload facts?”

“Sometimes hard facts; more often truth couched in myth.”

“I have accessed the Cranial Reservoir many times in my profession – more often in the classifications of military behavior.”

“My work is about relationships.”

As the analytical silence grew, the men sat musing with similarity of mind. Sean absently caressed a Michaelmas aster and then hefted a black volcaniclastic rock the size of a bowling ball. Fire glass.

“All that rot about Precious loving rocks inordinately? The goblin princess accusation?” said Sean. “Precious loves rocks for what they are, a normal part of our earth surroundings. She also, as you know, loves jewels and gold and silver – for their excellence. The man, he tends to objectify.  He loved rocks only because they were pretty – and because Precious was good at rocks.  He is a covetous being.  He craves for himself everything someone else has.  Precious was naturally gifted with the ability to know just which rock fit in which space as she built that terrace with our father, Petros. Then, she went to college and graduate school to find out the latest techniques for identifying gold and minerals.  The man, on the other hand, absorbed Precious’s successes for himself along with appropriating her tools.  He seemed to think whatever Precious did, he could do better just because he was the masculine portion of the team.  He wanted to stay home and enjoy rocks without having made any effort to learn about them.”

Again, Sean and the Traveler rose from their flagstone seats in tandem. As though with one mind, they headed toward the beach. As they walked, Sean probed for more details about Traveler’s work. “What do you consider your most valuable contribution to the Core – to the Cranium?” asked the analyst.

“Frankly, I come to many conclusions that I choose not to upload to the Cranial Reservoir.”

 “You remain covert? You withhold information?” queried the analyst, almost, but not quite accusingly.

“That is one thing I would never willingly do: withhold a discovery that would make life better for all.  But there is significant danger in serving up truth before the time is right. Precipitous truth could cause a Lady MacBeth situation on your hands.

“You understand the process, of course.  After much research and observation, information is uploaded / teleported to the Reservoir. Everyone has access to the Reservoir — and the Cranium, but few go to the bother to digest and think.  It is much easier to let others digest the information and broadcast it in 60-second sound bites.  Besides, the process to final truth and familiarity with the Universal Cranium is life-long and seems unrewarding to the average seeker.

“Once the information reaches the Cranium, it goes through an extensive process.  Anything that is not precise truth is sloughed off. Unscrupulous – or maybe just ignorant- individuals harvest the debris and make their living – and their power – from it. It is this detritus in the hands of well-meaning, but misguided individuals that can inadvertently cause spiritual abuse or emotional abuse.  Detritus adds a lot of pressure, stress to the lives of sensitive souls. I want to be overly careful. That is why I withhold; until I am sure – sure that everything I upload is precise – so that I do not add to the detritus.

“There are things that people believe so heartily to be truth they would stake their life on it – maybe your life too.  For instance: you must have meat and eggs for breakfast before you have pie.” Traveler paused, and then asked the rhetorical question, “Is it wise to eat a healthful breakfast before pie?  Yes.  Might an omelet serve the purpose just as well – or better- than biscuits and gravy?” Traveler raised his eyebrows into question marks.

The analyst gave a rueful smile.

Traveler continued, “Is it imperative that children respect their parents? Yes. Must adult children follow every word of advice that falls from the lips of antiquated ancestors in order to show that respect?” Traveler paused for a moment and let the question hover. “Myths that hold the essence of truth may cause simple minds to make a shrine of the shell.  They worship the vehicle of truth rather than the truth. They make sacred the cow rather than simply being nourished by the meat.”

It was not often Sean Journey found himself in the presence of someone both safe and intellectual. He proffered a rare insight from his personal life. “I respect my dad for his philosophical, good-hearted patience and perseverance. I love my mother because she gave birth to me and nourished me, meeting my basic needs when I was young. But very seldom do I find it comfortable to visit Castle Rook.”

In a Music Town: Saturday Night Live – Music

She played at Jean-Pierre French Bakery for three and a half hours on Saturday morning. On Saturday afternoon she taught piano lessons. At 5:00 PM she hightailed it out of the house and down to Main Street to catch the last few minutes of the retail business day and the first few minutes of dinner out on the town. It is a good thing to do on a Friday or Saturday night; take your laptop or handheld device and do a bit of proof-reading or writing in a quiet corner at a table for one while live musicians play and others around you unwind from the office week. At The Office restaurant and bar at the Strater Hotel, the musician was singing solo accompanied by his ukulele. He sang the standards spanning the last 60 years and once in awhile threw in an original. She recognized his name and his style though she doesn’t know him well. She stepped back to the restroom, poked her head in the doorway of the Diamond Belle to see the ragtime pianist (one of five). Very good, but not one she knows well. When her food order finally came and she had written a chapter, she gave a cursory glance at Instagram before heading out. She clicked to follow up on a Jean-Pierre story thinking she might catch a photo of herself at the piano. Monkberries! Oh. That’s tonight! Monkberries are playing in the garden at the Rochester Hotel. Now the Monkberries are a partnership of two. The songwriter, arranger and guitarist happens to be one of the managers at Jean-Pierre restaurant. He also happens to be one of the guitar private lesson instructors at Stillwater Music. She hastened her departure from The Office, hurried to the garden at The Rochester, enjoyed a song or two before being hailed by an incoming group of six all decked out in evening black. It was half the serving crew from Jean-Pierre. At two minutes until eight, after a Beatles tune, she slipped quietly out the garden gate to make her way in the direction of home. Across the street live music was still in full swing at Lola’s, the food truck lot. Sounds of trumpet, mellow like a cornet. Ah, yes, Jared, the leader of the Durango Wind Ensemble along with a couple colleagues. She paused for a moment and wondered if she should cross the street and identify the two colleagues. She thought of walking to either end of Main Avenue to see if she knew the musicians at Gazpachos or 11th Street Station or Esoterra or the street pianos in-between. But no, Sunday morning comes early and she herself will be back tickling the ivories at Jean-Pierre after a refreshing Saturday Night of Live Music.

In a Music Town: Making a name for yourself

It had been a full week, musically speaking, four week days of work 1:00 to 7:00 at a music school. A band practice. An open mic night. An extra concert at which I worked the door on my usual Friday night off. So, naturally, when I finished playing the piano at the French restaurant that morning, I was in need of a little refilling of the creative vessel. A little relaxation. After a quick lunch, I pulled myself up to the piano and knocked out a few vintage pop torch songs, singing as I played. I grabbed the guitar and accompanied my voice, I taught a couple piano lessons. I was exhausted and hungry, so I walked myself over to the historic Diamond Belle saloon for dinner knowing it is now ragtime season and I might glean a bit of entertainment and inspiration from a good old upright piano player. It is a six-block walk to the Diamond Belle. In blocks one and two I was buffeted by the remains of a rain/hail shower and I turned my collar to the cold and damp. In block three as I passed the DAC I was greeted by name by a bicyclist whom I know through Stillwater Music. In block four someone called my name from the sidewalk in front of the popular Steamworks restaurant. It was a mother and students from Stillwater. At block six I stopped at the billboard to see if Adam Swanson was playing tonight. Hands down, Adam is my favorite old-tymey piano player. Actually Daryl Kuntz was playing and so I slipped on in, seated myself single and ordered up my usual Straiter burger. Daryl plays one other morning of the week at Jean-Pierre, so I felt I was among friends. He delivered a great (inspirational and informative) ragtime performance for the next 50 minutes. I took notes. I let my ear enjoy and take in all the nuances. I finished a portion of my burger, boxed the remainder for tomorrow’s lunch and declined dessert, whereupon the server said, “You’re all finished then, someone already paid for your meal.” What? But I don’t know anyone here. “No. It was just somebody who wanted to do it!” I don’t even know their name. They probably don’t know mine. But I do know that I love living in a music town – a town full of piano players and history and music students and people who support the arts – whether they know your name or not.

She Laughed – and I hope you do too

She passed her 69th birthday with aplomb. Working six hours at a music school. Going home to a grilled hamburger. The next morning she took a brisk walk along the river trail that stretches eight miles beside the Animas River from south of town all the way north through Durango, Animas City, and Oxbow Preserve. As she walked, she thought as is her custom. Almost seventy, she mused. Next year I’ll be seventy. And she laughed and laughed. And then, she laughed again with great joy! She is still mobile! She works 32 hours a week outside the home and the remaining hours of daylight she practices and works from home. Her kayak is on top her vehicle. She put it up there – and she takes it down whenever she can and paddles it about the water.

Yesterday she got in her car and drove the 180 miles to Grand Junction to pick up her 90-year-old dad for a visit. As she exited Durango somewhere near Hermosa (which means beautiful- and it was) the green highway sign boldly proclaimed Silverton 26 miles. And she laughed. Are we there yet? We are not as close as we think. She laughed because there are two mountain passes between now and Silverton, two steep and winding mountain grades with sheer drop-offs and precipitous curves and no room for speed or for error. It will not be a 30-minute trip. But it will be beautiful.

Take your time. Laugh lots. Be beautiful.

Tree Hugging: His name is Gus

His name is Gus and he is appropriately named for the journey he has been on. You see, Gus was a Christmas tree in December of 2022, confined in a pot, possibly root bound, maybe over-watered and not well drained; or perhaps over-heated and parched. We’re not exactly sure. But I am getting ahead of myself here.

In 2010 I helped my cousin tear down a log house that had not only belonged to, but been built by my grandfather. It was built from 1936 to 1938 by hand from windfall logs hauled from the backside of Grand Mesa – the largest flattop mountain in the United States. Had the building happened on site in the mountains where the trees fell, I would call it a cabin. But, the logs were hauled down by wagon to the outskirts of a city in the valley, so we always referred to it as a log house. Uncle Willis did the bulk of the collecting and hauling with Granddad. Uncles Emil and Milton helped build. My dad, being only five or six had not much hand in the work but he did grow up in the log house from the age of six through graduation from high school.

During the years I was growing up we paid Sunday visits to Granddad at the log house. In the summertime, we frequently paid visits to Granddad at the cabin on Grand Mesa – by Eggleston Lake. Granddad took great pride in showing off all the little projects around the mountain cabin. At a young age I knew where the spring was located to go for a bucket of water and also how to clean fish in the driveway of the cabin. Granddad had stripped a lodgepole and constructed a flagpole. Off to the side of the cabin he transplanted other conifers, tended them, watched them grow and- most importantly-gave them names. He named them after his children. “Look how Willis is growing this year!” “Emil is not doing so well, I need to give him more water….” “This little guy is David.”

Have I said recently that I love to hug trees? And pat rocks? Well, I do. I love to see the little pine trees with their new growth shoots. I call them Musha trees because the new shoots remind me so much of the wagging tail of our long time departed malamute. Musha trees. Willis. Emil. I think we have a tree-naming trend going on here.

A fine Musha tree still clad in Christmas decorations and putting out new growth

In November 2022 my roommate (aka my daughter) and I went shopping at a local nursery and for several pretty pennies came home with a lovely three or four foot blue spruce tree in a four gallon bucket. We loved the tree, watered the tree, decorated the tree, undecorated the tree and then subsequently moved it outside when February arrived. Once the snow finally melted at 7,680 feet this year; once the ground had thawed and we could actually get a 4-wheel drive truck into the One-Acre-Wood; we continued with the goal to replant our Christmas Tree out in the forest where he belonged.

Even when bringing the tree home in November we had used the truck with the tailgate hatch open. By April the tree was significantly heavier and more difficult to move despite one side having dried out and died. Andrea called a friend from the gym. The two of them lifted the tree into the truck, positioned it through the hatch and commenced what should have been a mere 16-mile journey. But a bridge was out. Detours were made. Finally, the tree was returned to the ground as originally requested. Andrea’s friend stood back and said, “His name is Gus. Gus from Lonesome Dove, my favorite movie. We’ve had a long and circuitous journey to return him to the ground. His name is Gus.”

By the way, Gus is quite happy in his new habitat. We may even see new life coming from the dead side.