Red Firetruck

Is that redundant? Of course, if it is a fire truck, it is RED.
The first year after I was born my brother got an incredible present from Santa: big red fire truck with removable ladders and a bell. My Dad insisted on bringing it to my grandparents (an 8 hour drive in a tightly packed station wagon) so Christmas morning. I imagine his thrill, when he laid eyes on it, eventually followed by his horror that his little sister wouldn't stop touching it AND wanted to ride it.
But it is the way of the manifest world isn't it: I want your stuff starting from the earliest consciousness. Curiosity springs eternal from the time one tries to grasp one's own hands, and then a rattle, eventually a spoon fork, and sippy cup. working our way up to a cell phone and laptop or books and chocolate mousse. I know this to be true for me with 5 younger siblings who would not, or could not resist my stuff. Dolls, notbooks, art supplies, clothes: all of it fair game.

Last carriage ride

I dreamed that I was with my Dad last night, and he was very much alive. We were chatting in a hallway somewhere in house in an urban neighborhood. It appeared to be twilight and he was preparing for a trip to Arizona. I don't remember the exact conversation but he was in the process of dividing up (or maybe collecting together) cash that was going into envelopes (or coming out of envelopes) and talking about dying: But this was all definitely happening after his death and cremation so the timeline was out of chronological order. In any case, I woke up feeling peaceful, bordering on happy. And convinced that he will be visiting me whenever I need him. I dressed to take the dog outside and reached for his Columbia polar fleece, the one pictured in this photo, the one I put on the first night after he died. The one with his checkbook in the pocket. There is so much I don't know, that I don't need to know. And yet, one wonders, doesn't one?
I thought he would be so thrilled with this carriage ride in Scottsdale. I planned it as a surprise, but he didn't seem particularly surprised. Enjoyed it, but not especially surprised. At that point in his dying process he wasn't surprised by too much. Even the flat tire earlier in the day wasn't a big deal for him. It was traumatizing for me, but not for him. He just said to pull over and get it fixed. No big deal, happens all the time, while I am stuck back in "how could this happen to me-land" What I will miss, and try to remember, is that he had a different perspective than I did. He liked to have fun, and it didn't take much for to have fun.Didn't really matter if it was Cirque at the Bellagio, or stopping at the 99 cent store on the way home from McDonalds.
This was a day of not knowing if I would see him again and not knowing if I could come back again. When I left him at the Red Mountain Cafe, we cried, couldn't say good-by and I said I would see him again. And I blew it. I trusted the hospice nurse more than him, and more than my intuition. If I had trusted him I would have left on Friday or Saturday or Sunday, or even Monday. But I wouldn't have waited for Tuesday. I would have remembered the Orsorio saying "weeks, not months".  I would have  left immediately instead of stalling. And I tell myself that it has to be about him, so that I can convince myself that he wouldn't have wanted me to see him at the end: weak, vulnerable, and unable to protect me from myself anymore.
He didn't just protect me from my mother and siblings, he protected me from my own self-hatred. He loved me more than I loved myself at times and for that I hope I will always be grateful.

The Lady Slip-her

I slipped off trail and did not even notice. Then two nights ago I couldn't sleep and I happened onto to a facebook link which led me right back here. It was like cleaning the garage or attic ,or a little used closet, and finding treasure. I loved writing this blog: the photos, the drinks and food. And what has happened in the past three years, I ask myself? Two marriages, one birth, two deaths, growing business, newsletters and a new blog for my grandbaby. It appears that I could write for 8 hours a day and not keep up with all my hopes and dreams. And camping, and the BWCAW. The Superstition Mountain Wilderness Area. Life, I guess one might call it. And now it is May, the month of my birth. Sun streaming through the newborn leaves as I hang out on the back yard deck avoiding responsibilities and tasks necessary for the conventional reality we share. Fantasies of travel and living off the grid come to mind as I peruse the listings on "Trusted Housesitter".  Maybe....