McCall, ID 08/08/08
August 8, 2008
A loud clap of thunder and rain on the tin roof awoke us this morning. For one reason or another, I have waited for August 8, 2008, for several years; not knowing where I would like to be, but hoping I would find myself somewhere other than Provo, Utah. As it happens, we are here in McCall, Idaho, having read an article in Sunset Magazine about this place. Happy Birthday!
I got up, stepped outside on the little porch to feel the moisture in the air from the nights rain. It was 42 degrees. In the morning light I could see that the cottage is painted several shades of green and white and looks as if it’s molting as the paint is peeling on all the flat surfaces. The view from the porch is beautiful—a small meadow filled with tall waving wildflowers of yellow, white, pink, and lavender.
I found a gift on my pillow from Molly (the dog). She sent a picture of herself and a Bassett Webkinz.
Breakfast of cold cereal, toast, orange juice and Mindy Mints was just what we needed before taking the bikes to Ponderosa State Park. The campground is beautifully nestled in the Ponderosa Pines and very well cared for. Our bike ride was strenuous for me and I walked my bike to the crest of several hills. The ride was 9 miles long on a peninsula that jutted out into Payette Lake. The views were spectacular and if McCall wasn’t such an out-of-the-way place, I would love to meet children and grandchildren here to walk, bike ride and picnic around the lake.
We returned to the cottage for a late lunch of peanut butter and jelly. Still rainy, we settled in to read a while and nap. I can’t remember spending such a peaceful day in many years. We played “musical chairs” in finding comfortable reading and napping spots. Danna moved from chair to bed, bed to chair. I wandered in and out from porch to bed as the rain and sun allowed me. The sunlight filtered in and out from underneath the clouds and the light danced through the cottage.
I am reading An Unspoken Hunger by Terry Tempest Williams a gift from a dear friend, Mimi Wheatwind. There a two stories in the book that have come to me at a good time, the first, The Architecture of a Soul and the second, The Village Watchman. The first story tells of Terry Tempest Williams as a “desert child” visiting her grandmother on the coast and the lessons she learned from her grandmother—walking along the shore picking up shells and later identifying the shells by thumbing through plates of photographs at the kitchen table. Many years later, those same shells now rest in a basket on her shelf. She writes, “My grandmother’s contemplation of shells has become my own. Each shell is a whorl of creative expression, an architecture of a soul. I can hold Melongena corona to my ear and hear not only the ocean’s voice, but whisperings of my beloved teacher.” I hope in someway my grandchildren will find a binding connection to me…to be thought of in this way would be an honor. The second story tells of Terry Tempest Williams uncle who resided at the American Fork Training School. He was handicapped. Ms. Williams referred to his condition as a “soul-birth.” It was a moving story for me to read and tears filled my eyes several times. I can’t recount it here for you, but you can borrow the book if you care to read it. One line of her story stands out for me and the words are her uncles…”I can’t tell you what it’s like except to say I feel pain for not being seen as the person I am.” In my care giving of Casey and Leita, my complaining and “long suffering,” I must learn to see them for who they are…our creators children and I must find joy in it.
Evening arrived and we ate dinner out and found dessert of éclairs at the local grocery store. Danna gave me beautiful earrings, a quiet restful day of vistas, sunlight, thunder, raindrops, and wildflowers. Who could want more for their 08/08/08 birthday?