Samain and the Holiseason Moon
Sunday gratefuls: Alan. Bread Lounge. Sourdough. The Woolly’s. Valhelga. Richard Bresnahan. His art. His life. The Johanna Kiln. Firing the Johanna Kiln. Frank’s opera scarf. Three prostate cancers and two major heart issues. But all the Woolly’s still alive. Go figure. Frank is 88. Bill 84. CBE. The Amphitheater. Iron Roots reggae. Luke. Elisa. Rabbi Jamie. Ellen. Fred. Time as the Sun intended.
Sparks of Joy and Awe: Woolly longevity
Tarot: going to do a spread later.
Social butterfly. Moi. Over to the Bread Lounge in Evergreen for breakfast with Alan. And, to buy a loaf of sourdough bread. The Bread Lounge is the place to be in the morning. It’s on a second story over Nellybelle’s General Store. Across from both is the Evergreen Cooking School, The Evergreen Market, a new art gallery, and Diamond Nails where I had my mani-pedi.
“You’re going back home?” Alan asked. The soft opening of the new CBE amphitheater was yesterday. I said yes. Then, on the ride back up to Shadow Mountain, about thirty minutes, I wondered why I didn’t mind. An hour on the road both ways.
It’s the drive. Curvy, up hill. Saw a small Herd, maybe 10, of Mule Deer Does. The Mountains rise above me as the valley goes by until about Brook Forest Inn. Black Mountain Drive, beyond Brook Forest, follows Cub Creek, but it’s all Mountain road. No Valley until Upper Maxwell Falls. Only a short dip down, then climbing again. The Trees change. Rocks and Lodgepole and Aspen line the viewscape. The temperature goes down as I go up. As Kate liked to say, we’re always on vacation up here.
A nap. Zoom with the Woollies on retreat. Good to see Frank, Warren, Joe, Charlie, Scott, Stefan. Ode talked about their visit to Bresnahan’s pottery studio. The Valhelga spot has many memories. Valhelga is a family retreat designed by Stefan, an architect. It’s on a small Lake not far from Collegeville, Minnesota. Collegeville is, essentially, St. John’s Abbey and college.
Over the years I’ve spent a good bit of time at St. John’s. On retreat. Visiting Richard Bresnahan. He made the jar that contains Kate’s ashes and will contain mine, too. Its main church was designed by Marcel Breuer [1902-1981]. An impressive building, I’ve never decided whether I like it or not.
After the Woolly zoom I went back down the hill to Evergreen and over to Congregation Beth Evergreen. Jamie had the idea for an amphitheater when several worship services, including High Holiday services were done outside due to Covid. The amphitheater construction finished up last week. Two bands. Reggae. Iron Roots. Jazz. Frannie and the Jets. A drumming.
As it happened not many of my folks were there, so I didn’t stay long. Saw Alan, Sally (that’s such an ugly dog. I hate dogs.), Elisa, Luke, Ellen, Jamie, Tal, Joan. Met Fred who corrected my pronunciation of Ushuaia. I suspect he was right. The music was good; the weather ideal; and, a food truck sold pie and ice cream. I’m not eager to meet new people and a bit too uncomfortable to hang without a couple of familiar folks. As Jodi said on Friday, “The Mountains are full of introverts, I think. Don’t drop by without calling.” Yep.
Jon, Ruth, and Gabe had planned to come, but Jon was dizzy. In addition his skin condition, which is pretty noticeable and itchy, was like, he texted, run away psoriasis. He sees a dermatologist on Tuesday. Since they couldn’t put him on the banked sick days, he has to return to work November 15th. I’m not sure he’ll be well enough.
He walks with a limp because his left leg has atrophied. Why? He doesn’t know but he’s working on getting the muscle back. Not for teaching, for skiing. Again, not sure he’ll get there.
His future as a teacher is beginning to look uncertain. Mostly due to his illness, but also to his long standing feud with the teacher evaluation system implemented four years ago. Not sure what retirement would do to him. Or, how he would earn enough money.
Notice please. No rant about time finally back to its natural state. My position has been fully stated over the last 50 years or so. I’m dropping it from my list of sore injustices. Or, better, I’m going quiet about it.