Xian trip Oct 19

I flew to Xian October 19 to celebrate Pei Hua University’s eighty years as a private school, hoping I might reconnect with a few students I remembered. Saturday’s skies were amazingly blue with fluffy clouds, something I seldom saw when there in 2006 as the “only foreign teacher” (two Japanese teachers, then, didn’t count?). A car and driver brought two Foreign Affairs workers to greet me, deposit me at five-star Shaanxi Hotel, and see to my comforts as a “distinguished guest” until I begged off in the afternoon. I found a bus to city center, had a Starbuck’s Americana, revisited the Muslim market for lively bargaining, and met Kansas Citians Ann and Tooey Miller for dinner. It was heaven to speak fluent English without simplifying or watching whether my comments were politically correct. We talked for several hours about our kids, their jobs at NW University, the upcoming US election and economic scene.
      Sunday morning’s ceremony at the new Pei Hua campus open area found 30,000 students sitting on army camp stools below the platform where I was ushered to the third row (of eight) by lovely girls in suits and heels reminiscent of the 60′s stewardess attire. They kept our 150 tea cups full, washcloths handy, along with plying us with fruit while the president, ancient graduates, and party officials gave lengthy speeches. At one point, colored fireworks filled the sky with green/pink/purple clouds; the noise brought black birds from the Education Building eaves, as if on cue against the colorful clouds. After two hours, we were ushered down to chairs and they held umbrellas over us as a fantastic program emerged in the drizzle: bubbles and flames during an avant garde fashion show, a live band, acrobats, costumed dancers, European opera, pop singers, and dramatic reading went on for two more hours. Foreign Affairs Department took us by van to Chaing Kai Chek’s villa for a sumptious lunch, and the current Japanese teacher, English teacher (from Michigan), graduate fellow from Bavaria, and Ed Johnson (friend of the director and everyone else he met) pled “tired” and didn’t return for the afternoon and evening programming–more singing, dancing performances.
     They took me to Metro Shopping Center to buy canned tuna and dark chocolate, Western products I haven’t found in Sanya. William Bai, Xian friend and ex-co-teacher, brought my return air ticket and discussed the world economic scene that evening. He was delighted to get Lenin’s Private War, a book I recently enjoyed. Sunday morning, I met the newly-retired English dean, “Joe,” for mutton noodles at the old campus where I lived for nine months. He brought pomegranates and kiwi, local fruits and insisted I sign my gift: Peter Hessler’s Oracle Bones. He’ll pore over it for months, I think. At 60, he’s working parttime teaching English at a small college and has just passed three of four tests to teach English abroad. He seemed cheerful at having retired. His wife’s mother is in a wheelchair, so he doubts he’ll realize his dream to teach in America. 
     Boss Helen was at the Sanya airport to pick me up, pleased that my insurance card had arrived. A post office remittance for some editing I had done for an AIDS publication in Kunming also arrived, so she took me shopping after I taught this morning. We’re preparing lessons (with all English-speaking teachers giving critiques) for an Open Day with parents invited October 31 for all classes. Our newly-started English Corner seemed a success with first meeting last week; we had nine teachers and one person from the community. Next meeting’s topic is “Suitable Jobs” and I’ve no doubt they will prepare with much written memorization. I’m a “foreign expert” here, seen as friendly. It’s nice to be appreciated by old friends like Pei Hua and new ones like the young teachers at Golden Sun Kindergarten.

Choices and Decisions

Having successfully received and sent back my US voting documents October 26, I’m sipping a fresh kiwi-orange smoothie, celebrating a new blender and my country where each citizen has a say in electing leaders. China’s 1.3 billion population doesn’t have that privilege, according to my 20-something co-teachers, who pored over my ballot and asked dozens of questions. Ella, ‘English teacher’ who’s gradually getting away from speaking Chinese to our nine kindergartners, and Shirley, Chinese teacher who has them reciting at the tops of their voices, meet me weekly to trade English-for-Chinese help. They’re regulars in our new Wednesday night English Corner too, eager to improve their English as long as other Chinese-only speakers don’t laugh at them. We played the game ‘Duck, Duck Goose’ while learning short-u sounds today, and the teachers chased around the circle with as much exubrance as the kids. 
 
I returned from Xian full of gratitude for the red carpet rolled out for us distinguished guests. They couldn’t control the soggy weather that threatened the top notch programming that followed Saturday’s 80th anniversary ceremonies. Battery-operated technology allowed speakers, microphones, and cameras to continue while pretty girls held orange-and-black  umbrellas over our 150 heads. Pei Hua’s 35,000 students toughed it out on army camp stools in drizzle for at least two hours. Not since the Olympics had I seen or heard such talented dancing, singing and playing. To top it off, Foreign Affairs helper gave me China Mobile’s gift umbrella to introduce Halloween colors to Sanya!
 
      Fully moved into my fourth floor apartment, I’m getting on-average one new appliance or piece of furniture daily. Venes came for soup we cooked on the new hotplate, Saturday; handyman Li has all faucets working and we’re hopeful for the washer hook-up tomorrow. I’m using my own laptop, connected to broadband just last night via my new phone (8863.0080 has enough eights to be considered a ‘lucky number’ ); I’ve a rice cooker and a wok for weekends when there are no meals served at Golden Sun Kindergarten. Tonight’s fare was fresh shrimp and bok choi with rice.
 
     Our neighborhood complex of six-story concrete boxes’ inhabitants congregated near the gate with gongs, horns, and drums last evening for a rousing celebration of a 75-year-old man’s death. Folks ate, played cards, and visited throughout the night. My 7:00 a.m. Tai Chi group, reduced to three who didn’t participate in the funeral, moved our practice to a clearing under a banyon a respectful distance from the mourners. Their all-night vigil was rewarded by rosy apples and thick rounds of cheese piled on tables as I walked to Golden Sun’s hot coconut milk and baozi (steamed, filled buns) breakfast. I had finished morning English class when firecrackers marked the end of the funeral gathering. I logged on to Google to discover China’s population clock ticking off 33 million births and 16 million deaths since 2008 came as a New Year’s baby.  I’m living among 1/5 of the 6 million world population, considering myself lucky to be here, gleaning what I can from your e-mails and internet newspapers about the economy and upcoming election.
 
      On this side of the world, we’ve weathered our first crisis. Helen got a call while we were registering my residency with the police. ‘Terrible! A teacher (teaches Chinese to three year olds) hit a kid.’ It was  in the class of 18 where I’m working with the confused English co-teacher on setting up and following a lesson plan. Helen spent the evening with the mother and child who gaily skipped around them, telling me she ‘solved the problem; I will refund one month’s payment and take the mother to dinner. She insisted on an x-ray, although the child said it wasn’t necessary.’ Helen’s thinking what she should do beyond the Chinese teacher saying, ‘Sorry’ to the parent (striking children is unlawful here, but parents seem to be exempt from that law). The school takes a strong stand, thank goodness!
 
     It’s off to the beach after I teach ‘over/under/next to’ in English concepts today. Parents attend an all-day Open House tomorrow; for me, it may be business as usual. I often look up to see observers sitting in during my class activities. They’re glued to the repetitive ‘teaching,’ fade away when I start child-centered activities, but the kids are showing their individual smarts and personalities as they cut/paste/dictate/tie and–soon–make a neighborhood out of the sandbox. I’m sick of my name because it’s the greeting/call for attention they say repeatedly at the top of their lungs. Discourse comes later, I hope!

Kona, Hawaiian Idyll, 1-12-2012

Kona’s January week was an unexpected gift from Montanan, Elsie, who decided she needed a vacation when I had a companion ticket on Alaska Air. We booked Keauhou Beach Resort and found ourselves in an Outrigger, 7-story turtle sanctuary area with three heiaus, a fresh-water sacred pool, a restored summer house for royalty among lush ginger plants by a brackish royal bath, and a sand snorkeling beach next door. Turtle watching happened at all hours. Full breakfast each morning carried me into the evening meal.  I took a brush-up pronunciation class (5 vowels, 7 consonants, rhythm) and we spent two hours with a native activities director. They bring kids one week/year to live in the hotel, learn the ancient farming and fishing ways in a hands-on education in such things as finding fresh water and feeding themselves without supermarkets. Weekends, there was a 3-person band in the bar with the woman’s incredible range (2nd generation of singers who once lived in Keauhou Bay) singing the old songs. A quiet place for people with interests such as ours. We slowed our thinking to the turtles’ pace as they crept up to sun themselves daily; I never actually saw them move on land.We drove north from Kona over moonscape lava fields and returned through vibrant Parker Ranch grasslands, looking at real estate in pineapple-plantation town, Hawi. The gold statue of King Kamehameha still extends greeting arms from the community center at nearby Kapa’au, and the end-of-the-road, Popolu coastline invites you to hike down to the waters. Real estate is down at least 1/3 from ten years ago, but Paradise is still expensive. Weedeater for the jungle at your doorstep is mandatory here! Kawi had Saturday Market under the banyan, so I had local fried rice which tasted good at the small beach park with waves roaring in.

The $200 we socked down to go with Hawaii Forest & Trail’s Greg to the top of Mauna Kea’s huge observatories was worth every penny  (plus 9 hours’ time).  Mauna Kea’s belly button (pu’u) is 14,000′ and, unlike some, we stayed down in respect for the most-revered sacred spot above the observatories.  They issued parkas and mittens for 14,000 feet, pointed out a rare owl, goats, Franklin birds, a mongoose, turkeys, and neighboring islands above the clouds while adding history of Parker Ranch (800,000 acres where horses/cows/sheep changed the ecology from native forest to grassland, now reduce to much fewer acres with Waimea’s shops and residences on half-dry, half-wet and lush mountainside. We ate delicious chicken terriyaki at an abandoned goat farm (had I found a house I could afford?), watched the Army’s explosive plumes toward Mauna Loa to the south. The sisters remain peaceful now, but Mauna Loa’s biding her time to make a display for Pele to reconfigure the area below her home, either south-to-Kona or north-to-Mauna Kea’s valley. I sensed it will come.

Hawaiian lore tells of Fire Goddess residing at Mauna Kea and erupting often in fights with her sister, Mauna Loa (snow goddess’ mountain that’s set to erupt sometime again). We contemplated what would happen to Kona if Mauna Loa came alive, as predicted for several centuries, as we crossed the saddle. Silversword (a relative of sunflower, looking more like yuca) is again protected on the a-a and lapahoehoe’s barren surface and is coming back. We stopped twice, once at 9000′ and to “set a personal record” at port-a-potties after 4 spine-jarring miles of non-pavement winding to 13,780′. The observatory in a Jody Foster movie about UFOs came to mind at the satellite lined up with New Mexico and other points in the world.  The US observatory opened and lined up while we watched sunset. Many countryies (13?) use Hawaii’s clear air to study stars and spend amazing amounts on even more amazing equipment to make space discoverires. After a light-headed, slow walk at Mauna Kea’s edge, we came down to 9000′ and had a star look and lesson: Venus (w- white ball), Conicus (s-shimmering with scintillating reds, greens, golds), Sirrus or Dog Star (very bright). Venus-to-Jupiter (rings of gas, 3 moons atop, one below) make up the zodiacal path and we followed Greg’s laser from Aquarius to the Crab, visible at full dark. Others rise later as the earth moves at 1000′/second, I believe he said. Orion’s belt began all the constellation stories. We saw many comets and satellites above as we ate chocolate chip cookies and sipped hot cocoa.

Next day was Sunday; we listened to a Waikoaloa Community Church minister in aloha shirt and kukui lei expound smartly on scripture and had coconut-macademia cookies and guava juice with folks in gorgeous muumuus, then looked at the opulent Hilton grounds and determined that $400,000 golf course condos were not our idea of a Hawaiian experience. A short walk to Hualalai property’s Kuki’o Beach, with natives swimming and fishing, was more to our liking.  We returned to the Summer Palace Festival with street vendors singing and selling for blocks, sat on the sea wall and watched the Merry Monarch’s Band and Singers do a concert that included hula, chants, and cooling salt spray on our backs. One dancer placed her lei around my neck after the last traditional hula. Another day, Hapuna Beach’s turquoise waters, turtles, Queen’s Bath, islands, and few Maui-facing houses brought even more bliss. Friend Bob and I hiked a half-mile past Loretta Lynn’s (boarded up), pacemaker-inventor’s yellow plantation-under-a-roof, and the Bali House (reconstructed twice, from Indonesia, with roofline of a Thai temple in gorgeous woods). Owner, Paul Mitchell’s son is rumored to give it to Hawaiian Trust, a fitting gift for royalty. Paul evidently used to use the beach lean-to with a plastic chair, cook stove, cot, and idyllic sunset scene daily before illness took him. I figured the beach shack would work pretty well for me–home comforts and island breezes. It occurred to me that, when this body’s worn out and ready for rest, ashes tossed into the Pacific from South Point cliffs would fittingly mingle with lava turning to black or green sand. The greater drama remains unchanged from ten years ago when I stood at this point.

Thanksgiving, 2011

Feeding them morning and night for three days, I got to know Zoe (foreground), Prince (white Arabian and herd leader),  Della (well-mannered bay), Joe (Black newcomer who’s already moving up in the pecking order), and Edwina (who paws the fence whenever she’s impatient).  It takes awhile to separate Winnie (she’s still Edwina to me) in a pen where she gets oats, then take the same 2/3 can of oats plus 1/5 bale of hay inside Zoe’s pen. She’s running around like a crazy mare, spooks at the carrot stick I carry to appear bigger and keep her from charging over me. She kicked at me one day anyway! My brother told me before he left, “If she gets sick, don’t call the vet. Shoot her!” Fat chance of that!

I divide the 4/5 of the remaining bale, load it in a wheelbarrow, push it through snow (that turned to brown slush over the next few hours), and hoist it over the high fence at four strategic spots that are not within kicking distance “in case they get to bickering”. Winnie paws to get out to the hay, then changes her mind about going beyond the grass in her pen, Joe tries to come in, and I finally win the battle of wits. Pat Parelli’s carrot stick helps; I only apply a little pressure or show it to them and they move where I want. Zoe drinks her water down daily, but temperatures stop freezing, so I carry her a bucket each feeding. Then it’s time to lock the gates and cover the hay in case bad weather or deer move in to spoil the bails. I needed a bath after each feeding foray, sometimes finding hay beneath three layers of clothing! It’s good exercise, and as long as I got it done in daylight, interesting and enjoyable. Thanksgiving, after a late dinner and two Scrabble games, friend Elsie and I wrestled bales and sank into muck with my headlamp’s help. I returned to her kitchen today for a reward: dipping mint/walnut/vanilla nougat in chocolate. We ate our share of samples. Happy holiday time, whether you eat hay, oats, or candy!

It Happened in Florida…

Halloween in Sarasota? I went with my costume (worn to deliver Meals on Wheels, attend a Fallcrest Circle block party, and hand out Trick or Treats), a swim suit, and long pants. After all, it was frosty in Spokane when I left. Longtime friends from kid-raising days in Kansas City live in a gated community, eat healthily, exercise regularly, and are ingrained in the Sarasota community. Other than a few grey hairs, I didn’t see much change in either of them.  Marcia volunteers, collects plants, black cats, and tea cups; Buzz serves on boards, reads Wall Street Journal, and goes to the real estate office daily. They’re both avid readers. I finished Jimmie Carter’s An Hour Before Daylight  in spare moments. The only must on our calendar was a “Wit and Wisdom of Aging” luncheon to benefit Pines of Sarasota, a facility where 75% of the residents are on Medicaid. The co-chairs had gone all-out with a panel of a retired Circuit Court Judge (METV “Through the Tunnel” was a recent project), clown Ginny Daly (direct marketing to worldwide movers and shakers plus Rails-to-Trails Conservancy), and NHL winningest coach Scotty Bowman (“10% is what happens to you; 90% is your attitude toward it”).  All recounted stories about aging and praised The Pines. Contributions poured in as we enjoyed exceptional food. I wondered if Mom would enjoy living there.

Our first morning’s challenge was to open the garage door without electricity in a rainstorm. We borrowed Buzz’s car and made the rounds an hour late. That left two hours to walk Siesta Key beach. White sand there feels like walking in powdered sugar. The afternoon sky turned cobalt with silver lining the bottoms of white clouds. Seagulls liked it too.

Sarasota Magazine   mentioned a penguin exhibit at MOTE Marine Laboratory, so we were off! We communed with sharks, skates, octopi, manatees, sea turtles, and grotesque fish large and small. The senior guides at various stations shared an impressive amount of knowledge. Lunch at The Salty Dog was fish, of course. However, Sarasota’s big news was its fourth annual Chalk Festival.  We watched pastel artists covering pavement with 3-D street art and heard exerpts from “Madame Butterfly” performed on one chalk backdrop. So the normal next step was to call for Sarasota Opera tickets; it didn’t disappoint. Cio-Cio-San’s tragic life touched our hearts, Pinkerton made us hate his weakness, and Sharpless had our sympathy as they sang their hearts out in Italian. Subtitles helped.  Three days without defined plans filled our time with Sarasota’s best experiences. We went to Turtles for crab-filled shrimp and filet oceanside to avoid cooking one evening, another memorable taste of Florida. Too busy to put even a toe in their pool, and all without a schedule! I returned to snow in Denver and icy wind in Spokane. Across Thompson Pass, I drove in slush. Mountain rams were eyeing their conquests in my driveway as I turned home, glad I went and glad to return. What wonderful places this country has for enjoying life!

Gold, Don’t Trash It!

It’s nearly the end of October, and all I needed was a fleece vest to walk the quarter-mile down to my mailbox. I glanced at the birdhouse on the deck and decided the aspen gold hadn’t been brighter any Fall in my ten years here. Going on down the steps to the drive that winds its way downhill confirmed this. The colors were positively glowing. With little mail to carry, I decided to make my way along MT Highway 200 and check out the Clark Fork Valley colors. My house receded, but the colors didn’t. The aspen, possibly a few poplars, and evergreens reached to catch sunlight. The winner was clearly the cottonwood to the west of my property. It shone like a prima dona on a stage full of starlets. Its gold-bronze set off the hanging meadow above my place, leaving it like a white-crowned ancient one resting above all the fluttering leaves. I remember hiking up that meadow one green Spring, heart pounding with each step, and a return trip down when too much momentum had me wondering if I’d stop gracefully or in a heap against a tree at the bottom. My hiking partner, thankfully, caught me. In spite of the angle that propelled us both downward, we had kept stopping to enjoy the view of Clark Fork River. 

I dedided this valley is gorgeous in every season. Turning attention to the river, I crossed the highway for a closer picture. Looking both ways–twice–I hurried across the new double yellow lines. Between me and the view lay the route of eighteen-wheelers, logging trucks, SUVs, Subarus, Suburbans, old clunkers, and occasional bikers. All but the bikers were going well over the 65 mile/hour speed limit. Thank goodness the mountain sheep hadn’t been seen down there for awhile.

Someone had tossed a plastic bag in the grass. I picked it up and started filling it with juice cans, pop bottles, Bud cans, breakfast bar wrappers, faded celephane, a washcloth, and broken glass. No more plastic was handy, so I left the rest of the debris in the grass, except for a hunk of heavy chain that will go to the scrap recycle.  At first, I was angry; after all, I’d picked up four miles of the Perma Curves with Women’s Club Highway Clean Up and added another couple of miles for the Methodists’ Clean Up Stretch last week. Women’s Club made a game of it–prizes for the most unique finds picked up by plastic-gloved hands. As I recall, one rubber child-sized shoe won over a dime, an unopened energy bar, a diaper, a car tag, a potholder, and a faded Horton Hears a Who.  We’d filled, on average, a giant garbage bag-per-mile on each side along the roadway near the Plains’ Weigh Station too–just outside the city limits. Driving along, it doesn’t seem like much to toss your coffee cup or beer can (some even crush them!) out of a car window into the grass and weeds alongside the road. If it’s over a guard rail, you never see it again–until you have to retrieve it and the rest of the trash folks pitched. How can we be so inconsiderate of others and nature? I don’t understand it.  I began to hurry homeward, itching to wash my hands. (I’ve heard horror stories about what truckers toss out their windows.)

The breeze fluttered my driveway tree leaves, and I lifted my eyes again to the hill colors. Maybe tomorrow, weather cooperating, I’ll take my own garbage bag and do a half-mile each way on my own. The neighbors will probably not notice, but I’ll feel better and have another day in Fall’s glorious colors. Come join me!

One more freeze and windstorm and all this will be gone for 2011, maybe before Halloween. Here’s my costume: “The Good Witch” feels about right today, living above this clutter that hides under Montana’s glorious color.

KSHomecoming and Wedding

It takes two nights and most of three days to drive from MT to KS, even with a stop to see Devil’s Tower in WY.  Gas prices varied from $3.85 (SD) to $3.19 in Wichita, my daughter’s home. We biked the Arkansas River trail for an outdoor lunch. My CA niece, who’s a serious biker, coasted while I pumped hard on the uphill areas. She and her dad went on to OK for family visit while I drove to Kansas City for a visit with friends. A foray around town included the Kaufmann Center for Performing Arts, which just may put KC on the map! We met up in Fredonia for a country wedding of a grand niece I knew when she was quite young. The spacious setting included soybean fields, a horse, cows, and an outhouse (built by the groom). After a religious ceremony attended by ten-or-more nationalities (the bride taught in Afghanistan), the groom picked up his bride and carried her down the grassy aisle to kickin’ Alabama music!  I could’ve stayed all day…

Leaving before the buffet, we drove to Fredonia. I caught up with my Class of 56 on a trailer at the tail end of the parade. My brother’s class, in ’61 tee shirts, sat on bales on a flatbed a few floats behind the high school marching band.  Our tees would mostly have had to be XXL, I’m guessing. No corsages (like Prom days), but it was definitely chyrsanthemum weather! The most poignant mini-reunions in Bateman Gym were with people who were courageously fighting cancer, heart problems, diabetes, Parkinson’s, and broken bones. Warm sunshine lifted our mood and restored lively memories and relationships. The Stone House Gallery featured local artists’ works, the ferris wheel still brought squeals, and a friend’s family hospitality shared home-made soup and salads just off the square. After a 30-mile drive to visit Mom, I returned for the class dinner. I found out two friends from my class were grandmothers of the bride and groom–small world! Roast beef and fried chicken with mashed potatoes claimed our attention before a candle-lighting remembrance of our 12 deceased classmates (2 women, 10 men). Banter and informal discussion led to offering of rooms for those of us who had a hard time getting a room in the area; most left by 8:30 pm. I remembered dancing ten years ago! Next morning, the Catholic Church’s pancake feed brought out half the town. I talked with retired farmers, one friend finishing a small machine repair building, ex-inlaws and classmates from several states. Pictures from the past popped up as agine profiles suddenly became the same smiling eyes I’d looked into 50 years ago!  Another overnight at my daughter’s plus two super-long days’ driving, and we pulled into Home Sweet Home in Montana. Slow drizzle fell, much needed cleansing and refreshment for parched mountains.

Yellowstone in Three Days

Off I-90, take the first highway that says “Lewis and Clark Caverns” and plan two hours to descend 600 steps into the interesting formations claimed during the Roosevelt administration and readied by CCC workers after a private explorer had led tours there for over 90 years. Lewis and Clark never actually got to see the caverns that bear their names. A little over an hour brings you to the 1959 earthquake slide which formed Quake Lake. The interpretive movie is well done and brings alive the drive along Hegben Lake where you can still see slight remains of asphalt roads and resorts that disappeared into the lake. Huge displaced boulders form memorials to 28 people who lost lives that August night. Split a buffalo burger and strawberry pie in Ennis and follow the Madison River into West Yellowstone. Best Western Cross Winds had bargain rates, breakfast, hot tub, and ready access to Visitor’s Center (Ranger talk on “Colter’s Hell” as a Yellowstone introduction) and Grizzley and Wolf Discovery Center.  Animals there aren’t able to survive in the wild, so serve as ambassadors for their counterparts in the wild. While in the park, we saw moose, coyote, antelope, elk, bison, ground squirrels and a lot of cars stopping traffic because a grizzley was sighted at a distance. Our walking shoes got a workout around geyser basins, to (my personal favorite) Morning Glory Pool, and managing to shoot Old Faithful from three perspectives. Old Faithful Inn’s Roasted Red Peppers and Smoky Gouda soup plus antelope sausage with carmelized onions made Tracy’s lunch. I had trout after bison chili, good hiking fare. For awhile, we stopped at each significant geyser (fumarole)pool, or paint pot. This cauldera reaching into four states would reach unbelievably far if it ever built up enough magna to spew; we carefully stayed on boardwalks and paths, wondering what the mountain men thought when they first saw the erie steam or felt a Firehole River hot spot. A bird kept calling until we found him–peeping out from a post! Comic relief from contemplating Nature’s possibilities! Everywhere we looked, there were colors, intricate patterns, and awesome works not designed by human hands. Not satiated, we returned from a ranger’s talk about the grizzlies’ decline in numbers (they once roamed KS), appetites for human food (“a fed bear is a dead bear”), and Shoshone legends tied to bears long before Yellowstone was set aside by FDRoosevelt as a park. Arising early, we sought more artistic inspiration around the upper loop. Waterfalls claimed our morning–Upper, then Lower Yellowstone Falls, then Tower Falls disappearing into mist. We left at the last possible moment through Gardner’s North Entrance as a storm greyed the skies. It will be a long time until the colors of the Land of Yellow Stone fade. 

Bee Busyness

Family gathered in KS 4th of July, and son-in-law, Brian, introduced us to bee-keeping. Brian’s apiary, or bee yard, is actually on a neighboring alfalfa field. Riding there, I remembered Dad noticing a swarm, one of the 20,000 species of wild bees’ hive in a hollow tree on our SE KS farm. He brought honey mixed with chewey beeswax and several bee stings. We had delicious, waxy honey on biscuits for months. Brian’s honey, given and sold upon request, is milder without the beeswax.

First lesson, sans hat and veil, showed dividers with hexagonal hints of beeswax beginnings. Female workers will make wax, build cells, receive honey and pollen, and build them until their separations drip with honey, usually nine-per-bee box.

I stayed safely behind truck windows, but the guys donned hat and veil (bees are attracted to breath. They didn’t want any aggressive ones pumping out alarm pheromones that furthers stinging attacks. Ties around ankles and sleeves (over gloves) insured no bees would end up trapped under clothing. Brian deftly used the smoker to calm the busy workers and moved slowly without all the gear. We arrived at an alfalfa field with an oil well donkey bobbing up-down in its center. Late Spring rains and a record-high temperature Summer had affected the alfalfa–and the bees pollination activity.  I watched the sequence–smoke, remove the top or the apartment, inspect a divider or two after bees are smoked or brushed off, and replace until more production happens.

Their work? The queen, the only breeding female, must produce 1500-3000 eggs/day. The nuptual flight that marked her hive position long ago took flight after 15 days of being placed there. She mated with thousands of the hive’s 30-50,000 large drones high in the air, they returned later to fertilize the eggs, where their work was over. They were driven out into  winter to die. The normal worker eggs hatch to make more workers. If destined to become a queen, the hatchling is raised on royal jelly and grows to be another large queen destined for her own, other hive.  Brian extracted frames, uncapping them with his knife, but it wasn’t yet time to extract honey for filtering. We went home emptyhanded, but excited about the look at this colony’s activity.

We were in good company: rock paintings on four continents show ancient bee activity. Pharoah’s tombs contained honey. Pots appeared in Chinese writings. Aristotle discussed bees, who went scientific in the 18th century. France tried glass observation walls (that destroyed entire hives) until medieval monastaries perfected honey production for mead. 19th century brought Yorkshire bee farmers to the US, movable comb hives,and spaces between frames (for removal without destroying comb). Bees cover the world: 4,500,000 in Turkey; 9,800,000 in India; 2,400,000 in the US.

It turned out that female workers, who appeared busy by my standards,  were in a low work output mode in the Summer. They go non-stop for six Fall weeks and 16 Winter weeks–cleaning cells, incubating, feeding young larvae, receiving honey and pollen, making wax, building cells, guarding the entrance, and pollen foraging. I didn’t notice any larger drones, and we didn’t locate the queen.

Brian showed us how a queen is shipped in a small box within a larger frame; we peered into his pristine separator and noticed stacked buckets of honey awaiting a journey toward hot biscuits. Even better, it will mix with peanut butter (PBH?) and become a healthy sugar substitute.

Summer’s Relay

Barely settled into my house, weeding and weed-eating so the woods didn’t grow right outside my window, I traded thoughts of Saudi Arabia for a Montana focus. This time last year, KC Judi was e-mailing plans for a Yellowstone overnight. Now, she’s writing of her daughter-in-law’s sister, my daughter’s classmate,  succombing to cancer at age 43. Her next e-mail brought news of her daughter-in-law’s diagnosis with cancer. How quickly things change for us. I decided to join family in Kansas, drive Mom to visit my sister and husband in Oklahoma, and catch up with Liz in Kansas City. All healthy changes: my sister loves her cool sewing room when it’s 117-degrees outside in OK; Mom talked three hours each way on the drive (new perspectives on family stories); Liz had quit TV cold turkey and switched to Facebook and a mountain of reading. Wichitans, Napans, and Montanans did well around the pool my son-in-law built. While in Kansas City, Judi and I cried a bit over her favorite, spicy Mexican, and a letter from her son’s wife telling of their dismaying diagnosis, getting their boys a new puppy to soften the blow, and beginning chemo the same day the cancer was found.   KS temps climbed to 111-degrees as I flew home.

I came back in time to work on Voices of MT Baroque, this eighth Festival year. Handel and Vivaldi played on baroque instrumentss, a marvelous mezzo, bbq at Quinn’s Hot Springs, and a cultural exchange with Salish Kootenai drummers and dancers kept me wanting always to be in MT this time of year! Friend Gayle and I drove backroads across Sloan’s Ferry Bridge and stood awhile above Flathead Bend’s alkaline cliffs under a perfect sky. It was worth every gravel mile.

Today, I contacted my nephew and determined to walk August 5-6 to raise money for Relay for Life to combat cancer. I’m hoping friends will want to contribute or buy (and decorate?) a luminary that continually reminds all-night walkers around the Plains Fairgrounds of those who did not survive and the hope of those fighting the good fight, whether in their own bodies or in research laboratories. I’ll target each hour’s walk at $100 and hope Jed’s Mayo Clinic heart and my aging body have to walk several hours!

Return to Excitement in Paradise

Once I agreed to return mid-October, Nora asked if we could look for nonstop airfare for Montana. June days were increasingly hot, so I agreed quickly! First and second grade had welcomed Tana’s mom, who told us about publishing her several children’s books. Zeytuna had celebrated her birthday in fine style. Wacky Wednesday had brought pirates in the school gates on the same day as kindergarten graduation. Each class had performed for proud parents.

“Shake that bottle” brought down the house with applause. “We are the World” brought tears.  I received flowers and a standing ovation from parents after kindergarten graduation. I felt honored, useful, and productive. It wasn’t hard to pack up my desk, one corner of the teacher’s lounge. Having the water cooler and fridge plus two couches had opened the door to relaxed communication with the teachers. They seemed to genuinely have appreciated my being at My Little School. Aida’s husband, Ali made me a seafood dinner at their home. The glow dimmed with a press of folks and bundles bound for India at 4:30 a.m. in Riyadh, much confusion in the London airport, and 25 hours in the air. I returned to weeds pressing around my redwood house, with my yellow roses bursting into bloom. The community welcomed me: talk about Saudi and Women’s Issues at Plains Women’s Club, enter paintings in Art on the Walls, and cook for friends. After June 24 dinner, my brother called from the bottom of my long drive. “Some lady hit a moose; he’s on your land.” It was friend, Dixie’s Prius with a shattered windshield and neighbors who dressed out the meat after Fish and Game shot the injured yearling. No one was hurt but the moose and Dixie’s car. I hiked back up my drive, thinking how I had seen a red fox, two hummingbirds, and a moose on my place in one day. That’s a long way from camels and sand!

Dubai

Dubai’s “tallest building in the world” is just that–gleaming silver into a blinding blue sky that defied fitting into one photo–unlike the Burjuman whose entire length I could see  from Al Manzril Hotel,  a nice 5-star that treated me well with Thai soups and a huge buffet after comfortable pool time. I did a dinner cruise on Dubai Creek in a dhow (early boat) with 399 others with an Egyptian dancer show with a horse’s head that peered into our hairdos and plates. I also met some Chinese folks here for an Expo who brought back memories the way they hit the dessert table first.  Saudi cultures excel at sweets, so the table was full.

Next day was a city tour and a beach tour on a double-decker with commentary in seven languages (A/C went out, and we about died for a bit at 42-degrees C–113-degrees F). City tour explained history:  Internet City was a mangrove swamp in 7000 BC, 3rd century found Dubai a ceramics capital, 1892 was under UK protectorship; 1966 introduced oil for the seven United Arab Emirates just south of the Persian Gulf. That’s quite a long haul from a place called home by a tribe of pearl divers.  The beach tour showed us the monorail to “Lost City of Atlantis” with its dolphin swims at the end of a palm-tree configuration with high-end hotels and condos on reclaimed land. The “World” configuration of islands would have been more impressive if the double-decker had been a helicopter: islands in the shape of this half of the world are located in the Gulf. Movie stars and monied people are buying them, beginning at 10 million for a small island. Switching back to the city line,  I saw the indoor ski slope; Dubai Mall with several-story acquarium and 10% discount at Bloomingdales; souks–especially the gold market (walking around the city in pedal pushers and tee made it great).

The third day’s unexpected adventure was unforgettableI hired a driver to take me into the dessert where I could photograph camels and dunes without the wild rides safaris offer here. He got stuck on the first ridge; we spent two hours, watching temperatures climb from 42-degrees Celsius to 47 (117 Farenheit) while he scooped hot sand and tried to drive out. It took four men and a shovel plus letting air out of tires to finally do it. Gas is cheap, so A/C was blasting all the while when the car felt safe enough to enter. I got to the Dubai Int’l (United Arab Emarites, seven tiny countries along Persian Gulf) airport with ten minutes to spare. It felt good to be home at the compound!

Another couple of good memories were with Pakistani workers: one guy who helped us dig out wanted to know why America was fighting his country and we had some good exchange about Osama bL, another guard near Dubai Mall parking got excited when he met “an American” and told me of a Christian man in CA who had helped him a lot. I came home to see my Indian driver and tipped him 100 riyal for delivering and picking me up safely. Only in Saudi Arabia, maybe? I told my Pakistani morning driver of the sand dune adventure this a.m. and he said, “Why you not call me? I come for you.” These guys haven’t been home for more than a couple of months in 6-8 years, working here for little pay (I think Aida pays her staff well) and sending it back to their families. Another memory: waiting in the Ladies Room while man after man was waited on at many lighted windows at the embassy where I had to get my visa stamped to reenter Saudi. The guard happened to see me and asked if I had been seen yet; he pulled some strings and my visa was stamped after I paid 450 riyal. Otherwise, I might be in Dubai still–not a bad place to be. I came back to school and watched chocolate-filled croissants, dark chocolates, and cheese pastries carried into my office/teacher’s room. No Cokes (lots of guava/mango/OJ), like the life-size ads I saw in Dubai, but our teeth could become like those marked out on the ads.