2000-09-09 - 20:17 MDT

September 9, 2000

Rootless

It has been a very pleasant day, weather warm with a light breeze. We picked up our daughter from her assisted living residence and headed up north of Denver to go to Barr Lake. Actually I think it is a dam, or semi-dam. The dope on the info board said that it once was a buffalo wallow, which indicates that that area was swampy wet area to begin with. It is owned jointly by the State and an Irrigation company. This year the level of the lake has been drastically lowered due to the irrigation needs this dry year.

We went into the park, and wandered around a bit, enjoying air that was clear compared to closer to the city. Also we enjoyed being able to see vistas of unbuilt land extending for miles, trees lining the course of a stream, before we went into the park we had seen various kinds of animals kept on farms. We saw large birds flying free, diving and then soaring high. My very soul was flying with them, my desire to be able to fly has been with me from my earliest memories and still the wish to be able to perambulate freely on my own power the airy blue. I guess the closest I ever came to that was a sailplane ride from the Boulder Airport. We were towed west past the Flatirons, cut loose and toured the country between them and the mountains. My pilot kept catching the thermals, keeping us aloft a bit longer than the normal ride. The feeling of flight without the noisy jets or reciprocal engines, just the soft sound of air being cut by the wings. The sight of a sailplane with it's tiny body and fuselage and it tremendous wing span sings the praises of unpowered, pure flight.

My flight depended on my estimate of the ability and expertise as well as the survival desire of the pilot. Just like I do not want to board an aircraft piloted by a man on overtime, I must have as much confidence in the sail plane pilot as I do in whoever does surgery on me. Guess I picked that up as a passenger on motorcycles -- to be one with the motorcyclist implicit faith of the passenger in the mental stability and ability of the throttle bender must be there. And the man was good, very good and in good humor answered the questions I frequently asked him.

Reluctantly today my gaze came back to earth with my psyche to appreciate the things surrounding me. The special feel of being "out in the country," gives me the desire to come back to the land. I am sure many of my ancestors were stewards of the land and enticed it to produce food galore. There is a feeling there an aching for the peaceful life where bedding down at night is in the deep silence of the countryside - away from the Interstate Highways and airports. Just calm, serene, quiet -- a peace enfolded slumber leading to a pleasant, happy awakening.

A few times in my life I heard the sound of silence. At my Grandma's house in New Mexico, just the other side of a foothill was a little town, which also became quiet at night. Settling down in bed beside an open window, a cool breeze wafting down caressing my face as I stared out looking at the stars and approaching the arms of pacific sleep, feeling sleep coming but not fighting it as in town -- rather inviting it into my sleeping domain. I really enjoyed that quiet today, a period of tranquility and comfort.

Watching as a light breeze ripples across the grasses, seeing a rabbit in his native habitat. Just feeling the country, wide spread about me expanded my own little personal mental possessions in the land of the country.

Out on the backroads, the old custom of always giving an oncoming driver a wave is still there to be seen. In the city a wave is usually one fingered. My Grandpa explained it a bit, he said, "If I don't know them, I know either their dad or their son -- help will come out here when it is needed -- show gratitude before you need the help." He said many things that have made life important and enjoyable for me. He was a rough and ready prospector and hard rock miner turned Company assayer at the Moly mines and one who could never pass a Budweiser sign but who drove a true course no matter his cargo.

Our day in the country was pleasant, Heather visited scenes she remembered from her childhood. Her dad was an ardent fisherman and when he went fishing the whole family was taken along, her mom setting up a base usually in the shade of a tree which grew where one could move around as the sun moved and still stay in the shade. She would keep a close eye on her kids but let them feel freedom and did not hassle them. Of course she was a source of sympathy and comfort laying on the healing hands of motherhood to magically make scrapes and bruises all well.

Missed are the people like that, who were so good and kind in life and gone before kindnesses have been fully returned.

Back at our apartment, surrounded by our little treasures and comforts and the things that make sense to have available, when I come home from, "out in the country," I feel rootless.

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