Three hundred thousand miles and counting....

Jay's Prius' odometer stopped dead in its tracks at the number 299,999. We were getting ready to have a celebration at the three hundred thousand milestone, and it refused to turn. Luckily, Jay could set the trip measurement, so had a record of actual miles for the Toyota dealer, who had absolutely no idea what to do. Hey, Toyota! If you are going to make cars that go the distance, make the odometer capable of recording all those miles!  They eventually agreed to replace it, but it bugs to have this instead of all the miles to which it is entitled:

Though it says 75 miles, it's actually 301,849 miles, and we want credit!

Almost 7 years of the 150 miles/day Tooele/Deseret Chemical Depot commute, two cross-country trips, several Yakima and Seattle trips, a few California down and backs, countless cabin trips; a coyote strike, a billion Great Salt Lake insect strikes, a jackrabbit thump--all on the original battery and everything else (except tires and a catalytic converter and a foglight.)  Not bad!!

We call this car Myrna, and I have a pretend battle with the female GPS voice vying for Jay's affection. She never calls him an idiot for asking for directions on the three block ride home from the church (I think he just loves the sound of her voice), and she is ever so patient in saying, "Recalculating. Make a legal U-turn," after she's told him what street to take already. I should take a lesson from her rather than denigrating her constant babble.  Jay is a yakker and wishes I were more so.  I should let him have this digital friend and try to ignore her voice as I read my book, feet on the dashboard while he adds more miles to the Prius record we are undoubtedly setting.

Hopelessly Earthbound

Yesterday I either broke or sprained one of my poor old osteoporotic wrists and lost my glasses I was using as a headband when I fell on a slippery rock in a slot canyon. 

It was one of the best days of my life.

Do you like the pink shoes?

Ninety-degree day, cool water, high twisted sandstone canyon walls, challenging my body, soft air, red sand, good company, plenty of time and a million thrills--watching a water ouzel doing its little bobbing dance on a wet rock near the river, sliding down a 20 foot rock slide into a little pool, inhaling the nostalgic aromas of ponderosa, sage and willow along the river corridor, climbing up a couple of obstacles holding on to ropes and logs and ladders beside crashing waterfalls, and all this the day after sleeping under the stars for two nights watching the Perseid meteor shower after midnight. We ended the day with an impulsive drive to North Rim for dinner. Thankfully, our 9:00 was Arizona's 8:00 and it was the perfect time for a grilled portobello mushroom, lentils and rice. Despite three near-misses in the deer gauntlet of the Kaibab forest, our brakes and Jay's reflexes proved up to the challenge and we arrived safely back at the cabin. A day does not get much better than that.

When I carpooled to BYU from Davis County, I always chose a parking spot next to a tree or a rock. One of my companions in this year-long experience said, "Kathleen, you are hopelessly earthbound." I'll claim it. Push me out of the Garden of Eden.  I'll take a bite every time.

Scheherazade, Paul Wing and the beginnings of literacy

"Hello boys and girls. This is Paul Wing and I'm here to tell you the story of_________________."

So began my love affair with words. Long before I even imagined that letters could make up words and written words could convey meaning, I heard the story of Aladdin, The Brave Tin Soldier, The 500 Hats of Bartholomew Cubbins, Seven at One Blow, The Little Engine That Could and many other childhood stories accompanied by fully orchestrated classical music. Imagine the richness of Rimsky-Korsakov's Scheherazade (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s_pkRH2DZuw will get you started) and the story of Aladdin intertwined, a carefully waxed linoleum floor and a gigantic radio/record player console to lean against with a blanket and you have a description of many contented hours of my childhood.


I hope I get to meet Paul Wing someday. His enthusiastic greeting and expressive voice were on countless vinyl records Mom bought for us with her Record of the Month membership. I almost feel that I know Mr. Wing--and surely he knows me! I was sitting right beside him when he read those stories over and over, each time exactly the same. My sister Suzanne and I could recite in perfect unison, "Happy here in this horrible hut? Huh! I should say not!" using Mr. Wing's exact intonation from the story of the Fisherman and his Wife. We have also both brought it up from our common memory when the occasion has warranted.

Though I don't remember our mom reading to us, Mom and Dad were both voracious readers up until their dying days. Their model as readers and Mom's investment in vinyl records made it easy to develop and enjoy the advantage of a rich vocabulary, familiarity with some fabulous music and life lessons from classic stories. What better way to begin life as a reader?