Culpepper Hill

Compared to cycling to the top Mt. Constitution on Orcas Island in the Puget Sound, or Adventure Cycling over the Cascades on the Northern Tier that starts in Anacortes and follows Highway 20 across to Maine, Culpepper Hill is a mere bump on the repurposed railroad tracks known here in Snohomish County as Centennial Trail.  

The trail is clean and well traveled by walkers, ramblers, roller bladers, roller skaters, strollers, wheelchairs, and equestrians. But it feels the most mileage from cyclists. 

On the Southend, it connects to several arterial trails in King County and beyond. On the North End, it is now creeping four miles past Bryant toward Skagit County. It ends for now at an historic dairy barn in a pastoral setting off Highway 9 North of Arlington. 

When we decide to go for a ride, we heave our bikes into the pickup and drive to one of the the trailheads 

The most I have ridden this summer is eight miles at a time. A few summers ago I made it on a seventeen mile trip. 

This Labor Day I asked Loverby if we could try going the thirty six mile round trip from the 152nd Trailhead in Arlington down to Snohomish. 

He thought accomplishing that before winter comes was a good idea. I could give you the Facebook status version and make it look glamorous, but it ended ugly - and we didn't take #selfies.  

A third of the way back my legs and arms started seizing and cramping. I tried walking it off, rested flat in the grass, and tried to massage them. Nothing helped. Craig stayed close by as I gimped along. Five miles from Culpepper Hill, I begged Craig to go get the truck and put me out of my misery. He urged me to finish what we had set out to do. He said, "Babe, if you can make along the flats to Culpepper Hill, it is all downhill from there. You can do it."

My mouth knotted and contorted in agony. Tears blurred my vision. Ugly groans escaped from the deep as I cried aloud for divine help to make it to the top of Culpepper Hill. If I could make it there, I could coast for five blessed miles to the truck. It wasn't pretty, but I made it. When we got home, I limped into a long, hot bath with generous portions of Epsom salts and took three Aleve. 

When we ride we hide our spandex underneath something. I also wear one of Craig's Carhartt T-shirts to hang over and hide my saddle overflow. The tractor seat shape doesn't fulfill its claims. 

Even though all my weight is distributed evenly upon my wide saddle, it still feels like I'm impaled on an upturned stiletto. 

We don't wear helmets yet. My braid starts unraveling like my courage by the time I'm one third of the way up Culpepper Hill. 

I keep seeing signs along the edge of the trail dedicating this portion of the trail to a member of a local cycling group. The story possibilities distract me as I wobble and waiver up this relentless five mile incline. This is a tough beginning for our thirty six mile round trip. 

They named it Culpepper Hill in honor of him. I start hating this man who probably crossed over to the other side cycling. He left behind all these colorful, tight muscled cyclist friends

whirring effortlessly up Culpepper Hill at great speeds. They politely call out, "On the left," so I won't wobble into them as I make what I think are discrete little zigzags. 

No matter the gender, a tight backside confined in black spandex cutting in front of me feels like a carrot I want to take a bite out of. 

Sometimes it's a perfectly synced pod of bright colors with lots of lovely black spandex hugging varied shapes of delicious derrières. Yes, the receding backsides of cyclists keep me peddling up Culpepper Hill. 

When they pass I pretend for a moment that we are just out of the gates at Belmonte - favored jockeys for the Triple Crown - in splendid colors urging our mounts on. We are neck and neck, but for only an instant. I fall behind by more than a nose. 

I'm on a bicycle ride, wearing no colors. You, you're a cyclist - head to toe decked in colors - splitting the wind.  

I want you to know I want to hang a rose wreath across your handlebars and put an ivy crown on your brow whenever I see you gathered on a ferry or in a park.  

I fantasize about setting up wayside stands to refresh you. I imagine destination dinners to celebrate another section crossed off your worn map. I research places that might need a cyclist hostel. I would give you my last crust of bread and let you have the only available hot water for a shower. I would set the tea kettle on and let you plunder my garden. I would make sure you had fresh sheets and the best pillow to make a bed in the extra room.

I follow your routes by lurking on your blog. I read and wonder about you circumventing the coast of Ireland - is it best clockwise? I ponder how many flats you fix a year. When I hear about hospitality in Costa Rica I yearn. I dream about feasting you on ice cream, bacon, steak, and homemade cinnamon rolls, but find you in the park taking bites out of power bars
and sports drinks. 

I like knowing you're out there pedaling steadily on some side road. I wish you'd stop and rest awhile with me - tell me your stories - because then I'd be able to watch freedom dance across your face and open road possibilities light up your eyes. 

Suck me tandem into your tailwind. Let me fly the last five miles down Culpepper Hill with you. I'll wear your colors. We'll make some other weighted down, panting, struggling soul want to keep our backside in view. 

Non Electric

Am I unplugged

or do these flashing

red breaker switches 

need flipped off 

to reboot my flagging

energy?

Hot current --

please flash lightning 

bolts through my flaccid 

lack of desire and make me

electric once again.  

Tree's Knees

I read somewhere

that in order to grow

to my birthright height

I must plant myself

in a grove of tall trees.

I chose a lush patch

of Giant Sequoias. I

might have made

a mistake - aimed too

high and mighty.

The warning said

never plant myself

in short bushes
or patches of small
trees because

I might

outgrow them

and become a target for

the elements which

will cripple me

and keep me
shriveled

and bent.
Staying short
makes me safe

but doesn't provide
sufficient blackmail
 to eradicate my
claustraphobic
bonzai phobias.
Adapting to survive
unrelenting erosion and
constant battering
by staying small

stifled my future grim --
 so I didn't go there. 

But this lush patch

of Giant Sequoias
 I chose keeps me

 under a shade canopy.

No matter how hard

I stretch to reach the sun

and catch a breath

of the clean air

they inhale

while they talk

and see the vistas

they see  -

I remain nose to nose --

with their knees.

They don't see me

down
            here.
            

Homemade Daughter

Her wedding dress

lays folded

finally finished

the last stitch knotted 

buttons on 

hem pressed 

waiting to hang

till it graces her 

lovely shoulders. 

It wasn't made in China

in a factory assembled 

by strange hands or

checked by quality control

before being shipped to 

the mall store. 

There were times 

my insecurity wanted 

it to be tagged and 

stickered and priced

sophisticated like that,

but I couldn't talk her

out of homemade. 

She picked the lace 

and floating silk chiffon

that layers over a weighty

silk satin skirt. 

"Mama, could you 

make it have a small

train and leave the back

open like this?" 

She doesn't know 

I couldn't make myself

use the hem stitch foot 

to roll the bottom 

easy and quick. I needed 

to thread the needle - 

slip stitching love 

five per inch. 

She doesn't know I 

pricked my finger, 

hoping no blood stains

remained.

. 

She doesn't know I

found the cat laying on 

it like the Queen of Sheba

nestled in a silk stole.  

After the wedding

guests leave he'll

unbutton the waist

that I button up 

before their vows. 

They prepare promises

to forsake all others 

and cleave to one 

another in sickness 

and in health, for 

better or worse, until

death parts them. 

I hate being left so they 

may do the needed

forsaking part. 

She doesn't know

she's taking 

my sunshine 

away. 

He doesn't know 

what it feels like 

yet, to be the moon. 

Pick a Posy

Pick a posy. Set the table
with mismatched china.
 Fold soft old napkins. 

Let wine leave stains
on white damask.

Let dropped petals 

lay until morning.

My five fingered acebia

latticed overhead
gives testimony -

you were here.

My favorite thing after a gathering is the morning after glow. Tears often fall at the memory from the evening before. I'm always grateful you actually came. Your essence stays. It is a gift. The reward.  

Daisy Paths

Bev gave Tessa a bridal shower. We looked out the window to their back yard and saw Jon, her husband, placing daisies face up all over the grass in a path to the still empty wicker chairs waiting for guests.

To Tessa, daisies represent uncomplicated, unsophisticated joy and happiness.

The daisies grow wild everywhere around here. They are free. They did take some thought and planning, some noticing, some investment, some time, and some follow through.

I think gifts like this bless the giver, the receiver, and those of us watching. The shower was sweet. Yummy food was heaped on the table, and gorgeous decorations were draped everywhere.

The gifts were thoughtful. There was intimacy. There were tears between young women who have been friends a long time.

But the daisies. Daisies made a mama and her daughter feel beloved.

It brought tears to my eyes. Jon and Bev have known Tessa for many years. They know she likes wild flowers and especially daisies. Our girls always said if we died, they wanted Jon and Bev to be their guardians.

Over the last few months, Tess more than once has said, "Man, I love that Jon Hatfield." Or, "I just love Bev, mom."

I'm grateful for good neighbors and good friends. And long history that says, "You matter, we are going to believe the best about each other and see this thing through till the end. And by the way - may I borrow a cup of butter or your staple gun?" Or, "We have an extra melon, could you use it?" Or, "Here, let us help you with that." Or, "Could we go biking or swimming or camping this weekend?"

The Crazy Neighbor Lady

The crazy neighbor lady
doesn't have twenty cats
but might as well have thirty
the way the carpet paths
between leaning book piles
look like they're shedding.

The crazy neighbor lady
doesn't keep her house
of chaos ordered well -
but she knows where
the sprinkles, paper
glue, and berry baskets are
for the neighbor girl
when she comes knocking
to play and do what she
calls ought which rhymes
with not, lot, and rot but is
really spelled a-r-t.
She goes, leaving glitter
behind, blessings left
to wink at me on the chair,
table, floor, and my hair.

The crazy neighbor lady
goes out early to
water flowers - and pick
a weed or two bottoms up -
with her uncombed
gray tresses flowing and
her loose breasts flapping
under a coffee stained
robe worn to shreds.

The crazy neighbor lady
garden walks in the golden,
guilt framed morning light
and lingers for a drunken
tete-a-tete with the blossoms
drinking dew straight from
the Master's still.


The crazy neighbor lady
scoops both cats off the
front porch swing, brings
a blanket and some tea - so
you may rest awhile
and beloved be.

First Day of the Week

I don't need a greeter

obligated by duty

handing me a bulletin -
proof positive
that visitors are

welcomed to this
inhospitable

business institution.

The microphoned

message is recorded, then 

podcast to the masses 

who don't listen. They
already know more about 

what's being taught

 than they know
 what to do with.

 It hurts my ears.

 I can't hear the voices

singing next to me 

because the music

 coming through speakers

drowns them out. It's like

a staged concert that

leaves the participants

stymied, mere spectators 

 confused about when

to repeat and repeat

words supposed to get

 the spirit roused enough 

to do some mighty work like

redecorate the sanctuary

or trade the empty pews

for comfy chairs. I don't

want forced to stand and

raise my hands by a worship 

minister who thinks that what

he's suggesting is the

best way to usher

our hearts into sacred

places.

I want to break bread

at my own table and pass

it to you - so you and the

person sitting next to you

have the chance to give and

receive from each other - 

maybe touch hands, 

whisper, smile, or

graze shoulders -

until it comes back

around to rest
 waiting empty
in the quiet middle.

I want to fill your glass
more than once
with sweet wine - 

tilting the sharp,
flat world
soft and round again.

I want to hear
why the tears fell last week
and listen while you share
 the blessings 

that rained down upon you 

in spite of them.

Let's gather round the piano

with the poet's smoldering pipe

smoke curling us together

as we sing four part harmony

into each other's lives.

Let's hold each other's

aching, full hearts tenderly -

and laugh at how futile it is 

to try to do anything
other than
be the beloved. 

Do It Outside

nap

eat

read

ride

- plein air

imagine

love

dream

sing

- plein air

watch

listen

whistle

hum

- plein air

harvest

gather

pick

dig

- plein air

fish

dive

swim

lay

- plein air

skip

jump

run

walk

- plein air

draw

weave

sew

knit

- plein air

breathe

swing

linger

fly

- plein air

Yes, I confess, a new french word just took my fancy. 

Berry Therapy

Mud splatters. 

Tears run. 

Houses wreck. 

Men rape.

Soldiers pillage. 

Girls rip. 

Water rises. 

Drought ruins. 

Crops fail. 

Floods roil. 

Wind whirls. 

Sun bakes. 

Icebergs melt. 

Lakes disappear. 

Holes open. 

Babies die. 

Love ends. 

Preachers abuse. 

Saints quit. 

Farmers cry. 

Workers won't. 

Honeybees die.

Soil withers. 

Guns kill. 

Boys steal. 

Siblings fight. 

Children starve. 

Horses founder. 

Whales beach. 

Factories pollute. 

Trash grows.

Oil spills. 

Banks fail. 
Schools unravel.
Stocks plummet.
Books languish.

Pesticides persist. 
Seeds mutate.
Technology advances.
News distorts. 

My heart quakes

with helpless futility -

So I pick berries for 

hope and sanity.