Hanging Around with Sloths

Three-toed sloth in the Amazon

One of the joys of travel is seeing animals in their natural habitat.  During our travels to Central and South America we have seen animals that we may have previously seen in a zoo. But they're in trees. Sloths fall into this category, although they don't fall out of trees very often. They don't even move out of trees, except once a week to take care of their elimination needs, shall we say. The rest of the time, they hang upside down in a tree and rarely move. They are categorized by the number of toes--the three-toed sloth and the two-toed sloth, although they both actually have the same number of toes.

And sloths are cute, although their fur and skin are home to various forms of life--green algae and sloth moths, for example, all part of the sloth ecosystem. We saw the little guy in the photo above in the Amazon, just hanging out in a tree and watching humans watch him or her. Count the number of toes--he's a three-toed sloth.

The sloth in the photos below is definitely female. Look carefully behind the leaf in the second photos and you'll see her baby, its head visible under her arm. She's not in the wild, unless you consider a resort the wild. She was, as a matter of fact, just outside the spa. She and her baby are safe there, except for tourists and camera. She's a two-toed sloth. 

Mama Sloth hanging out in a tree near the spa. 

The baby is behind the leaves, peeking from under Mom's arm.

Climbing a Volcano

Climbing a volcano is hard. David and I found that out on a trip to Patagonia in February, 2015. In Chile, near the end of our trip, we climbed Orsono. Darwin saw Orsono erupt in 1835 during his trip on the Beagle, and it hasn't been active since then, although volcanoes around it have erupted in the past few years.

I had never seen volcanic ash, let alone walked in it. It's like beach sand, but black. You don't so much walk through it as slog through it. Out of our travel group of 23 or so, six of us and a guide elected to make the climb up the side of Orsono. We walked up and up, guided by a rope and a ski lift. Skiers glide down Orsono's slopes in the winter; February is summer in South America.


We slogged along, occasionally grabbing the rope that marked the path and finally reached a plateau. We didn't go all the way to the top. The view was glorious. We walked around the plateau, stopping and gazing in awe at the sights below us. Clouds floated below us. We could see craters formed by ancient eruptions and colors--reds, browns, yellows. We saw snow-covered peaks and green from plant life. It was awesome, in the original sense of the word "awe," a feeling of wonder and spirituality. We lingered at the top, reluctant to return to the bottom, but finally we did.

On every trip, I try to surprise myself by doing something I thought I couldn't, or maybe thought I'd never get to do. On the Patagonia trip, I had several of these experiences, but climbing the volcano was the most memorable. I can still close my eyes and experience it. And, thanks to one of our group, a talented photographer, we have a wonderful photo of ourselves rejoicing in the moment.

More than a year later, we found ourselves once again climbing a volcano, slogging along. Two of our closest friends, our next door neighbors for almost 30 years, passed away in less than a year. The widower asked us to take care of their affairs after his passing.

Unlike Orsono, this volcano was active. Unexpected hot spots happened, causing emotional eruptions: gifts from shared friends who have passed away; clothes and jewelry that brought back memories of our times together; birthday and Christmas gifts we gave them; an afghan my mother knitted for them.

As I sorted through carefully saved letters and artifacts, I began to gain insights into the forces that shaped their lives. They gave me a close look at life in a small town in Oklahoma, in Indian schools, as a member of the Creek Nation and as life as the son of an immigrant in a close-knit Italian family in Pittsburg, life in the Air Force for both of them,  a carefully planned elopement to Alabama from Florida where they were stationed, moving to Oklahoma after a few years in Pennsylvania, and 54 years of marriage, good times and not-so-good times, times of happiness and times of great grief.

The photographs, though. I dreaded sorting through those and postponed the task as long as I could--albums, boxes, frames--photos of every aspect of their lives; trips, family, friends, at home. So many photos and so many emotional hot spots. Then I began to look more closely at the photos of the two of them. They are so happy together and so much in love. From their wedding photos in 1959 to photos with family to photos on trips--always happy and always in love.

That became the plateau where I rested.  Nothing was stronger than the love they shared with each other.

I stood on the plateau on Orsono and was awed by the beauty it began creating when it erupted 180 years earlier. The metaphorical volcano was my own creation and I didn't expect to find beauty in a task I dreaded.  But I found it in those photos of two people wonderfully and passionately in love. Love was the force of nature that created the beauty of their lives.

May it be so for all of us.

In Hot Water

I've always loved waterfalls. Whether it's being awed by the power and beauty of the massive Victoria Falls and Iguazu Falls or soothed by the sound of the small manmade waterfalls near our house, I love the sound of water falling over rocks and into a river or stream or pool. 

One of my favorite memories from our scuba diving career was visiting a place in Costa Rica where hot water came out of the side of Arenal Volcano. Our group of divers walked into the rustic setting and discovered pools of various sizes and water temperatures and waterfalls into some of the pools, and people enjoying the experience. It was heavenly and I particularly loved sitting under the waterfalls and feeling the warm water cascade over my shoulders. At the time, Arenal was rumbling and producing lava flows down the hiking paths, which were closed.  I remember sitting in the water and thinking, "This is what the Romans were doing at Pompeii."

If you live in Oklahoma, February and March are great months to travel to the Southern Hemisphere. So last February, we decided to spend about a week in Costa Rica. 

Toward the end of our stay, we went to Tabacon, a place where hot water comes out of the side of Arenal Volcano. Almost as soon as we walked in the gate, we recognized Tabacon as the place where we had been decades before with our dive group. 

Tabacon is now a resort, with lovely landscaping, a series of hot pools with various temperatures of water and a nice hotel with a great buffet restaurant--and many tourists, like we were, managed by careful and efficient organization--dressing rooms, towel checkout and return, lines that moved quickly, and an excellent dinner included in the price of admission. 

Tabacon isn't rustic anymore. It's a sophisticated tourist attraction and it was full of people of all ages from all over the world. But I still loved it, as you can see from the photo, taken by my husband David, when I was under the largest waterfall at Tabacon. 

Times change. People change. Places change. And experiences change. This time, I sat behind the waterfall and looked out at the world through a curtain of water. Then I scooted forward to sit under the waterfall and, once again, felt the power of the warm water on my shoulders. 

Acting My Age

Here I am holding a piranha on a fishing expedition during

an Amazon River Cruise in August. 

The trouble is that I think I'm 20 years younger than my chronological age. And my genes support my brain. Family members routinely live into their 90s. I'm active, healthy and enjoying my busy retirement.  I clean house, garden, learn to quilt, enjoy cross stitch and reading, love to travel with my husband and maintain a couple of part time jobs.

This was not a problem until a few months ago. In June, I was sitting in a classroom at Oklahoma State University-Tulsa with a group of teachers who were the newest class of the OSU Writing Project Summer Institute. My friend Ben assigned the quickwrite: Think about the future, he said. Where do you see yourself in five years, ten, maybe even 20?

Twenty years? I thought. Oh. My. Gosh. I'll be dead! Or close to it.

The thought hit me like the proverbial ton of bricks. I know about mortality. I've prepared for it with an estate plan and all of that. But that quickwrite forced me to face the reality of my advancing age.

I've always had trouble letting go of doing what I love and turning jobs over to other people, even when I know intellectually I need to pass the responsibilities to a younger generation. My part time jobs are continuations of what I loved doing most during my teaching career.

Ben did me a giant favor though. He forced me to be honest with myself about my chronological age. I still feel at least 20 years younger than I am, but I also know that the best thing I can do right now is start letting go and start letting other younger people take over. The best way for my work to live beyond my life it to let others continue it.

The test came last weekend.  It was time to pass on one of my jobs to other people. I was invited to stay for the meeting which would continue my work. I thought about it for awhile. Then I said good-by and went to lunch with friends.

"Call me if you need me for anything," I said on the way out. They will.  But probably they won't.

I'm fine with that. They'll use what I did, build on it, change it, and make it work for a different time and different situations.

And that's ageless.

Back in a Super Again

The red 1967 Super parked at Hallett Raceway

I drove a Super again yesterday. And it was as much fun as I remember.

If you've read the "About Me" attached to this blog, you know that the title came from my driving a famous (or infamous) 1967 green Alfa Romeo Super for seventeen years. About a year ago, my husband moved Green Streak from its place in the garage to the restoration slot in his shop. Green Streak is once again a gorgeous shade of green and is coming together nicely. But it will be awhile before I'll be on the road again in it.  Meanwhile, a restored red 1967 Super sits in our garage.

April 11-13 was Corinthian Vintage Auto Racing weekend at Hallett Raceway.  "Vintage" in this case means 1972 or older and our down-the-road neighbor, Mike Halley, needed a vintage car to drive as the pace car. The 1972 Alfa Romeo Montreal was Mike's choice and the plan was for David to drive it to Hallett Saturday morning. I would drive a second car, which would be the transportation home, since the Montreal would stay at Hallett until the last Sunday race was finished.

So when David asked me what car I'd like to drive,  I said the Super.  It was, of course, in the back of the garage and took a considerable amount of moving cars around to get it out. And then the battery needed charging. All of that was accomplished and off we went, three Alfas in a row: the Montreal, the Super and our friend David in his Spider.

I hadn't driven a Super since 2006, when I ferried this one home from the Alfa Romeo National Convention in Tulsa. But as soon as I sat in the driver's seat and put my hands on the narrow steering wheel, it all came back: the key on the left side, the emergency brake to the right, the five-speed gearshift; the very simple two-slider heater control, the absence of a radio. Air conditioning? Roll down those windows!

For the sixteen miles between our house and Hallett, it was me and the sound of the engine, the wind through the windows, the gearshift rattle, the various engine sounds as I shifted up and down and up and down, revved it at stop signs.

As I drove through the gate at Hallett, the compliments started. "Love your car," the woman who opened the gate said. I found a parking spot and went to find David, ogle cars and watch them race. The only way I'd watch auto racing on television is tied to a chair, but I thoroughly enjoy seeing these vintage cars and watching them race. Occasionally, I'd return to the car to get something and find someone admiring it.

We stayed until the middle of the afternoon before heading home. David drove home and being a passenger was fun, too.

I doubt if Green Streak will become my daily driver again. I've become a creature of comfort, thoroughly enjoying the air conditioning, radio and efficient heater and defroster in my Abarth. But it will be fun to drive Green Streak occasionally and listen, not only to the car sounds, but also to memories of the students who were my passengers during those seventeen years of my teaching career.

Fitbit Frenzy

My Fitbit is attached to the ribbon around the elephant's neck. 

I am a victim of Fitbit Frenzy.

A Fitbit is small electronic device that wearers attach to clothing or put in a pocket. It counts the number of steps you take during the day. It also counts calories burned, stairs walked, number of miles walked per day. It will even track your sleeping habits and keep track of your food intake and weight.  The data are then loaded into a leaderboard so you can see how you compare to other people on your leaderboard.

For years, I was amused by my sisters email in which they discussed their statistics, needled each other about said statistics, lamented lost Fitbits and celebrated replacements. I was immune. At one time, I was the lone holdout among the five of us. No Fitbit for me. 

Then my four sisters celebrated my retirement by giving me—you guessed it—my own Fitbit. My youngest sister set it up for me and set my step goal at 10,000 per day. I was determined not to let the Fitbit control my life. And I wasn't going to compare myself to or compete with my sisters. I would do what I did every day and record the results. And if I forgot to put the Fitbit on my clothes, no big deal. 

Right. 

I had owned the Fitbit about two weeks, maybe not even that long, when I went swimming with it. In order not to miss counting a single step (a Fitbit Fanatic trait), I had attached it to my swimsuit so it could count the stairs and the steps down to the pool. I had a great swim, climbed out of the pool and began to dry off. My hand touched the Fitbit, still attached to the top of my swimsuit. Oh. My. Gosh. 

I yanked it off my suit and held it out to my husband. I was about ready to cry. Fitbits are not waterproof, as evidenced by the number of sisters who had accidentally put theirs through the washer and dryer and ran to their computers immediately to order a replacement from Amazon. 

My sweet husband took the Fitbit to his computer and read the instructions. "Fitbits are not waterproof," he announced. Then he took it to his hobby desk and tried to take it apart. No luck. "Put it in rice for 24 hours," he said. It was my only hope. 

I held it tightly in my hand as I headed to the kitchen, took a container of rice down from the cupboard and buried my Fitbit in the rice. My sisters were sympathetic, although a couple of them did tell me I held the family record for rapid destruction of a Fitbit. And for 24 hours, I couldn't log any steps. 

Twenty-six hours after putting it in rice, I retrieved it. I held my breath and turned it on. It worked. I decided to see if it would charge. It did. A miracle. My Fitbit lives! 

It's attached to me during all waking hours. My daily exercise has always been walking with our two Beagles, Cooper and Belle. But after the Fitbit, I began walking three miles every morning instead of two. And I no longer try to save steps. Need to make two trips downstairs? Not a problem. More steps; more stairs. Can't find something? I am no longer frustrated by wasted time and effort searching. The more I walk around looking for the missing or misplaced object, the more steps I record. Need to walk to the end of the driveway and back in 108 degree heat? I volunteer! Need to drag long and heavy water hoses to many gardens to do hand watering?  I'm your woman! Need to wander around shopping malls for hours, trying to find just the right pair of slacks? No complaints from me.

Am I close to my sisters records? Only if one of them is without her Fitbit for a few days. Otherwise, not a chance. One sister plays many games of tennis every week. Another sister jogs daily and runs 5Ks regularly. Another sister has a dog who loves to walk. Sometimes I suspect they walk all day. A niece who was comfortably at the bottom of the leaderboard for weeks is suddenly at the top.

We're leaving on a two-week vacation to another continent soon. I've read all about the places we'll be staying and haven't found much about wireless technology or even internet, which Fitbit needs to download data. And I certainly don't want to lose my Fitbit. So I've reluctantly decided I'll have to leave it at home.

I'll miss checking Fitbit frequently to see if I've walked the 10,000 steps before noon—my personal goal. I'm going to hate not getting to log the steps I'm sure I'll walk on vacation. And so much for the non-competitive vow. I know the worst part is going to be coming home to the hundreds of thousands of steps on the leaderboard and my name at the bottom with no steps logged for two weeks.

Maybe I'll learn to use the estimating function of Fitbit. . .

Presbyterian Daylilies

Daylilies are forever. They bloom in the hottest part of the Oklahoma summer, bright orange blossoms that last for one day. But because each stem can have more than one flower, they seem to bloom for weeks, never defeated by intense heat or drought, and always back the next year. Good luck trying to clear a flowerbed of daylilies. You may be absolutely positive that you've dug up every single tuber, but when spring comes, so will daylilies.

Daylilies are part of my heritage, a part I failed to appreciate during most of my growing-up years in Kansas. Daylilies were ubiquitous in the ditches along the roads of my childhood. I saw them from the backseat of the family car as we went to 4-H meetings, church, to town to see my grandparents. They grew near abandoned farmhouses or places where the house had disappeared or where people during the 1930s had planted them as erosion control. One of the local names for the daylily is "ditchlily."

My most vivid memory of daylilies are those that grew--and still do--beside the First Presbyterian Church in Oskaloosa, Kansas. They grew along the fence between the church and the house next door and along the edge of what used to be the manse garage. They crowded the fence and truly did seem to bloom all summer because there were so many of them.

After college graduation, David and I moved to Tulsa and my Kansas trips became infrequent. But as my parents aged, I began to visit more often.  When I went to church with them, which was every Sunday I was there, I'd have time to visit before and after church, to listen to stories and to appreciate my heritage, including those daylilies.

One Sunday, I mentioned the flowers to Betty, an accomplished gardener who volunteered her talents to the church. She sighed and said she really needed to divide the massive fence row of daylilies and asked if I'd like to have some. Yes, I would. We had recently moved to a new house and I was looking for easy-to-grow flowers.

On one of my subsequent trips, I gathered an armload of daylilies and put them in the trunk of my car. Mom was pleased. Those daylilies, she said, were Mrs. Swoyer's pride and joy because of their double blooms. I hadn't noticed. I have a vague childhood memory of Mrs. Swoyer, who I think was about my grandmother's age.

Those daylilies have been in my garden now for fourteen years, never failing to emerge each spring from the ground, blooming in the deadliest heat and driest years. Their companion plant is blue salvia, another beautiful survivor. Like Betty, I've divided them and given them to friends, even to the local nursery.

Unlike daylilies, people and institutions, even churches, aren't forever. The daylillies in my garden represent my heritage: not only the church, but also the people who loved me, encouraged me and cheered me on as I went away to college, married, moved away and achieved my goal of becoming a teacher. Most of these people are now gone, but the flowers remind me of their strength and inner beauty, surviving the Depression, WWII, innumerable griefs and setbacks, never giving up, always returning, drawing strength from their community and celebrating the ordinary beauty of everyday life.

The Oskaloosa Presbyterian Church building is still on the corner where it has stood for more than 100 years. The congregation, however, is dwindling, down to a few who faithfully attend service every Sunday. Someday the congregation will be gone and the building sold.

But those daylilies will be still there, growing, spreading, crowding the fence, always returning, symbols of the unyielding determination, eternal hope and faith in the future the Presbyterians bequeathed to me and to others of my generation.