Mount Saint Helens Exploded 33 Years Ago this Week – My Dad Was There the Next Day – And Here are Some of his Photos

I remember the boom that Sunday morning, May 18th, 1980 – 33 years ago this week – as we were getting ready for church on Orcas Island, Washington. It was 8:32am – or however long it takes for sound to travel 300 miles. My oldest sister was off at college, my Dad was down in Oregon at work with the Air Force, and my other sister, our Mom, and I were slipping on our Sunday shoes and just about to head out the door when we heard it.

“Oh, they’re dynamiting on Buck Mountain,” Mom said dismissively.

But Jenny and I said, “No! It was Mount Saint Helens!”

“No,” Mom disagreed. “We couldn’t hear it this far away.”

“It was the mountain, Mom,” we said again. “Turn on the radio.”

Sure enough, Mount Saint Helens – which had been steaming and belching and threatening to explode for weeks – had finally blown her top. The mountain – the entire skyline of southern Washington State – was no longer the same. The north face of the mountain was gone.

And so were 57 people with her.

My father, LTC David K. Wendt, was a rescue helicopter pilot for the United States Air Force Reserve, based out of Portland, Oregon. Here’s what Dad had to say about May 18th:

“I was the duty officer that Sunday – in the RCC (Rescue Control Center) which was a madhouse!! We were getting calls from everybody – including the President of the United States (or the White House office, anyway, to set up a visit for President Carter.) I didn’t get to fly until Monday morning – when I found the Moore family. Lienau’s rescue was a week later.” (The following photographs will fill-out the stories of these people a little more.)

These are some of his photographs, taken over the next several days following the event on May 18th.

The cauldron!

It’s like a photo from you-know-where.

These were trees. The explosion – firing at several hundred miles per hour – killed every living thing within a 230 square mile radius. All within a time period of 5-9 minutes. The orange smudge in this photo is a flare. (See links below to verify this information.)

Blasted trees on the surface of Spirit Lake. Spirit Lake was made famous even before the explosion because of a long-time resident, Harry Truman, who refused to evacuate prior to the explosion they KNEW was coming. His body was never found.

Steam vents – filled with logs from the blast.

Steaming waterfall.

Devis Valley

A 200 foot hover, while a parajumper is hanging on the end of a 200 foot cable as he works to make a rescue.

Flying toward a lake on the mountain.

Micheal Lienau, rescued by Dad and his crew. Several years ago they saw each other again as they were both asked to be a part of an NBC production on “Disaster Survival”. Here’s what Dad had to say about Lienau: “He made a video of the whole ordeal – saying how they looked back up the pass they’d come through and saw a volcano-blasted tree in the shape of a cross – just showing in the narrow slit of overcast volcanic cloud and the pass. He told the others with him – after seeing that cross – that he truly felt they were going to be saved – and a few minutes later we flew over the pass! I was hover-tracking them by their trail left in the ash and mud.” Otto Seiber, another guy rescued by Dad and his crew, was a filmmaker from Seattle, who went with his film crew to document the destruction on May 23rd. Their compasses freaked out in the volcanic atmosphere and they got themselves lost in a hurry. The mountain then erupted again on May 25th, and Dad and his team rescued them. By the way, Wikipedia has proven its reputation for inaccuracy by reporting that they were rescued by the National Guard…but it was NOT the guard, it was the Air Force!

A helicopter-view of another Huey.

Steam vents

They searched for the Moores – and they found them. Alive. Mother, father, and two small children.

The Moores.

Heart Lake

Reid Blackburn’s car. He was a photojournalist for a Washington newspaper as well as for National Geographic magazine. His body was eventually recovered from the car.

Chemically-altered pools. All sorts of weird stuff in that ash and lava!

Dad didn’t send me this photo because he’s not one to brag – but I wanted to include it! Details of the rescue of the Moores. This is the nomination form that was turned in, nominating them for the Helicopter Heroism Award that year.

Amazing what the ash in the air will do to a sunset!

Forever changed.

Here are several interesting links:

A very informative video put out by the USGS – the United States Geological Survey.

The USDA/FS site (United States Department of Agriculture / Forest Service)

Mount Saint Helens.com

A USGS summary of the event, including right before it and several years after it.

There are many, many more sites – I just choose a few which seemed especially good.

My Dad has had his photos used by the USGS, the Mt. St. Helens Interpretive Center, and this book, Fire Mountain. I have many reasons to be proud of my dad. The things he did during his Mount Saint Helens rescues are definitely some of them.

Copyright Notice: Unauthorized use and/or duplication of any material in this blog without written permission from the blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited.

Copyright May 14, 2013 by Gretchen Anne O’Donnell and Col. David K. Wendt, USAFR

Suddenly Everything Seems Possible + Ice Storm Photos

This is what we woke up to the morning after the lights went out. All the following ice photos are from that first day – all taken through our windows. The snow photos were the second day, mostly also from our windows. Finally, on the third day, we went outside as a family and saw the damage first hand.

The climbing tree, broken branches frozen to the ground

Surveying the backyard.

The pine trees were like Narnia – only the bad, evil witch part of Narnia.

A few shots around town.

The golf course.

Not exactly a safe place to play right now. I have heard many reports of eye injuries as people clean up the branches all over town.

Yes, this is a power pole. Or should I say, was.

Nothing but splintered remains and criss-crossed lines.

Horray!

Our saviors from Wadena.

And so the clean up begins.

I apologize for not posting these photos sooner…I couldn’t look at them without feeling ill. Seriously. I had to avoid them for a few days to get a little perspective.

The following is what I wrote on Wednesday morning, after the lights came on the night before. Allow me add that the power was back out on Wednesday night for a few hours, but that was because of a tremendous thunderstorm and lightning hitting a transformer…just what we all needed, right? It is Monday night now, almost one week later, and again we’re having snow and wind like crazy. It has been a wild couple of weeks that I really don’t want to re-live. On the good side, people were safe and there were very few injuries – mostly the injuries came later with damage to eyes when people were out cleaning up fallen branches. There are some streets that look like tunnels, the piles of branches are so huge. This will take weeks to clean up…months, perhaps. And years to get back our trees.

HOW MANY TIMES DO WE FLIP ON A LIGHTSWITCH WHILE LOOKING FOR A FLASHLIGHT WHICH WE NEED BECAUSE THE LIGHTS ARE OFF?!!! I think that everyone has done this in their lives.

So many switches were on in our house, and that’s how I knew the power had come back on because there were suddenly lights!

We’ve put away the flashlights. The dishes are gently rocking on the Anti-Bacterial setting in my dishwasher. A load of towels is “cooking” on high heat. I turned on my electric blanket last night, just because I could.

But the TV? You know, I kinda didn’t mind not having the TV on. Not having the internet bummed me out, I admit. But I really don’t have to compulsively check Facebook every half hour in order to be happy.

I tell you what does make me happy, though. Three men from Wadena, Minnesota – a town about 5 hours north of here – who restored our power last night, just two hours shy of one week exactly from when it went out. (The oven clock came back on and read 9:06 – it picked up right where it had left – almost as if time itself had stopped. As if the past week never happened.)

I looked up Wadena on my newly-restored internet and discovered that this town of 4,000ish suffered a terrible E-F 4 tornado three years ago. In other words, these men know what it is to suffer at the hand of nature. They know what it’s like to need help from others. They came down to my town so that they could give back what they received.

I told them, “Thanks for leaving your homes and your families to come down and lend us a hand.” They shrugged and mumbled and waved for my camera.

I am not usually given to dancing. But I danced last night.

Suddenly everything seems possible.

A Short Post About a Serendipitous Tradition

Okay, you might not believe me when I say this, but truly, we TRY to find each and every plastic Easter Egg each year at our outdoor Easter Egg hunts…but somehow, every year, one or two get lost and then a year or so later we find them, bitten by animals, grubby, abandoned, lying in plain sight beneath a tree or a bush. We love this “tradition” – even if it happens purely by serendipity and never by design.

The first time it happened, 8 years ago when we moved out to our acreage, we weren’t too surprised. We had hidden over 200 eggs that year, and, though we didn’t count them all afterwards, we were pretty sure that there were some unaccounted for.

Searching high and low!

“Did you guys search in the way back?”

“No, that was too far.”

The hunt begins. Seven 5 & 6 year olds having fun.

We went back to look and found about a dozen. BUT…we still didn’t find them all. In fact, it took us three years to find all of those, we know because that was the only year we hid little erasers in some of the eggs and, sure enough, when the lawn-mower found an egg three years later, it had a butterfly eraser inside it…and the marks of some creature’s teeth all over the egg’s smooth, plastic, ovoid exterior.

Mostly they’re found in the spring, when the long grasses have died back and the new ones haven’t yet taken their place. It’s as if the snow has rooted out the eggs, shoved them forward like icebergs shoved rocks across the plains, and they wait to be found, little mountains of color in our prairie lawn.

Ironically, it’s not green eggs that we tend to find, but pink or purple or orange – colors, in other words, that you’d expect would be easy to spot beneath a tree. But, as Carl Sandburg so poignantly reminds us, “I am the grass; I cover all“.

A few weeks ago, the kids and my husband took a walk in the back yard, despite the March wind and snow. When they came in, cheeks red and noses running, some twenty minutes later, Boo proudly held up the egg they had found.

And then, with a grin, she opened it.

Lovely. Was it a malted egg? That’s my guess. Though, to be sure, it’s an educated guess more than an obvious match for said candy. The remains of it could fool an archeologist.

The interior. Not too appetizing one year later.

I burst out laughing, loving the grubby egg, the continuing tradition.

The lucky finder of the Golden Egg one year ago.

Anyone care to hazard a guess on how many eggs we’ll find a year from now? If the seven five and six year-olds who came to hunt eggs at Boo’s party have anything to say about it, it will be zero. I, however, as the realistic mom…I’m guessing two or three.

Or, should I say, that’s what I’m hoping for. After all, it would be a shame to let a good tradition die.

I love dying eggs!

PS – Sure enough, there’s at least one that we couldn’t find this year. Boo says that the leprechaun took it. Could be she’s right. How else can we explain their total disappearance?!

Not eggs…but a egg-like welcome to a party!

PPS – ON EASTER DAY Boo found one from last year – nice and grubby and innocently hiding all year long near the well. What a hoot.

A tradition continues.

Afterwards.

A Mixed Bag

I’ve got a mixed bag for you today – the first is because something happened a year ago today that I can’t ignore and the second is a lovely recognition which I have been far too slow to acknowledge.

So…first off: Happy first birthday to our kittens! After several visits from the neighboring tom cat up the road, it became pretty obvious to me that the cat who had adopted us in the fall of 2011 was getting rounder by the day. Our kids even noticed. “Wow, Purny is sure getting fat!” “Hmmm…,” I responded, not sharing my suspicions, “she sure is.”

Purny – short for Copernicus – was dumped near our house by her previous owners. We know because she had a collar when she first showed up, and she was terribly skinny. It was also fairly clear that she’d recently had kittens. So the people who had her decided they didn’t want her any more when they had her little kittens to adore.

She began hanging around our house and we bought her some food because clearly, she needed it. She started to let us pet her. Soon it was clear that she was there to stay. Then, six months later, three kittens joined the family.

Mama and babies.

They were, of course, adorable. For about 8 weeks we loved them and played with them and knew, in our hearts, that we couldn’t keep them all. We prepared the kids. We found two lovely homes for them. But still, when it came time to give them away, it broke our hearts – and not just the kid’s hearts.

The only thing that made it better was the smile on the wee girl’s face when we handed her her new kitten, which she had already named, “Carlos”…aka “Carwos” in her three-year-old way of speaking. Carlos has become one of their family – he is incredibly patient and friendly and his family is hoping for more little Carloses in the future!

We gave the other kitten, Cali, to some friends who have a wonderful conglomeration of animals at their house: an enormous, black, friendly dog, many cats (but they wanted more females), a couple of peacocks, several sheep and quite a few chickens. Cali was lonely for a few days, adjusting to her new circumstances, but then she became her master’s best little outdoor friend, jumping up on his work table, butting into everything, and earning her nickname, “Trouble”.

Trouble was, “Trouble” was too friendly. She crossed the street to visit some fishermen at the nearby public fishing access. They petted her and exclaimed over her, and the next thing “Trouble’s” owners knew, the fishermen stole her.
Life is full of good and bad stories, isn’t it? I have never seen my ten-year-old daughter cry as much as she did the day we told her.

BUT…we still have the third kitten, Zephyr, so named because a “zephyr” is a calm breeze, and he was the calmest of the kittens and is still a lovely, purry, friendly cat and we are so happy to have him in our family. Yes, he and his mama fight some…but they also will touch noses – something I haven’t been able to capture on film yet – and we’re convinced that is proof that they like each other.

OKAY…now for the second thing in this mixed bag:

I have been very kindly nominated for the “Liebster Award” – isn’t that lovely?!

So…I will try to obey all (most) of the rules of the nomination.

1) Add the award icon to your blog! Ok. Done.

2) Link to your nominator to say thank you.
I was nominated by Deb Dundas over at Midway. Deb writes about a variety of things, including book reviews – which I always enjoy! The link to her blog is to a somewhat sad story about a guy she knew once who is now down on his luck. It’s a good story to make you appreciate what you have and to not be stupid about your choices in life.

3) Answer the questions the tagger has set for you, give 11 random facts about yourself, & create 11 questions for your nominees to answer.

Deb’s questions:
What’s your favorite book? How can I ever choose just one?! Ok. Fine. Peace Like a River, by Leif Enger.
Who’s your favorite author? Again, impossible to choose! Let’s just say H. A. Rey and leave it at that.
Skiing or snowboarding? Neither.
Cultural or “shake and bake” vacation? Totally cultural.
Favorite place? Orcas Island, Washington.
Air conditioning or au naturel? Air all the way.
City dweller, suburban, or rural? Rural…though city life has its appeal, too.
The most exotic place you’ve ever been swimming? I don’t swim, but I suppose Hawaii in the 8th grade. I got sun poisoning and spent the rest of the vacation covered up.
Who is your hero? Any old lady who is kind and patient and wrinkled.
Which musical instrument do you play (or wish you could)? Piano – badly.
The last live musical performance you saw? My middle school children’s band concert.

MY 11 RANDOM FACTS:
1. I love salads but I don’t like making them.
2. I collect cookbooks. Sometimes I use them.
3. I can’t tell a joke to save my life.
4. I lived in Germany for 2 years but I can’t speak German. I studied French for 2 years but I can’t speak French. I took one term of Russian and finally admitted that I’m not cut out to speak a foreign language.
5. I dislike wine. This didn’t go over too well in France.
6. I used to dress funky. Now I excel at the busy mom look. Not nearly so impressive.
7. I like attention. Hence the funky dress code of my pre-mom years.
8. I do not understand how anyone can possibly enjoy beets.
9. I cannot draw to save my life. If someone was like, “Draw a fabulous picture or die,” I’d say, “Ok, Jesus, here I come!” (See “Who is your hero?” above!)
10. I overdosed on Hazelnut Creamer right after college. A lot better than od-ing on a few other things I can think of, but to this day I can’t abide the stuff…but it is a bummer when my favorite café is out of French Vanilla.
11. I dislike Monopoly. There. I said it.

3. Choose 11 up-and-coming bloggers with less than 200 followers, go to their blog, and tell them about the award.
I don’t have 11. I decided instead to stick with Minnesota/near Minnesota bloggers that I haven’t mentioned before…

That left me with three.

http://bethannchiles.com/

http://treadlemusic.wordpress.com/

http://birchwoodhill.wordpress.com/

And here are my 11 questions for my nominated bloggers to answer:
1. French Vanilla or Hazelnut?
2. Tennis shoes or heels?
3. Flying or driving?
4. Chocolate or Vanilla?
5. Small towns or large cities?
6. Summer or winter?
7. Movie or a book?
8. Soup and salad or meat and potatoes?
9. Music or silence?
10. SUV or bicycle?
11. Skiing or swimming?

Betrayal

I have written the opening lines of this post several times in my head over the past week. I have questioned and prayed and cried. I have wondered whether or not I ought to even write it. Are there things so sacred that they ought not to be written? Things that, in the writing, are depleted by the very act of putting them into words? Or is it just that I, as an imperfect being, am frustrated that nothing I say can begin to touch the truth of a life which was…but is no more?

I am not a painter. I am not a sculptor, or a carver of fine wood. If I were I would attempt to remember through my art, to present a portrait of my cousin that could be admired, touched, hung on a wall or put on a pedestal for all to see. Even then there would be limits: her hair was not quite like that. Her fingers were surely longer: a pianist’s hands. How can I portray her laugh?

My medium is less tangible, but no less imperfect: words.

Andrea loved words. She handled them correctly, used them honorably, and her conversation was intelligent and enlightening. I always enjoyed talking to Andrea and she always made me think. I only wish we could have talked more often, and for many more years ahead. She would comment on my blog from time to time, and I cherish those comments – never wasted words, always seasoned with grace.

Andrea’s sense of humor was dry and sharp, much like her mother’s. I didn’t realize how alike they were until, in recent years, I read letters from them both and saw how closely they resembled each other in viewpoints, in political ideas, in tone of voice. Their letters – or e-mails as the case may be – are ones I sit down to read with a cup of tea and a smile. And it is they I am thinking of when I proof-read my Christmas letter each year, knowing even as I do so that I probably have a few errors which they will notice but be too kind to point out.

Andrea wrote about her visit to the plastic surgeon after her mastectomy. She had me doubled over in laughter as I read, describing his harem of nurses, his words of assurance that her new chest would be gorgeous and compelling. She could laugh at herself, her world, her cancer.

When I was eleven or twelve, Andrea came from Ohio to spend the summer with us on Orcas Island, Washington. Living so many hundreds of miles apart had done nothing to encourage relationship, and, while I’d met her several times over the years, I didn’t really know this cousin who was eight years older than me and I didn’t really know what to expect when she moved into our house for three months. After all, I already had two older sisters; did I really want another one?

Turns out, she enjoyed spending time with me! She even wanted to make cookies with me and didn’t mind me hanging around! She helped me with stuff, she laughed and giggled and schemed with me. She even led me in a culinary triumph: Hot Dog Cookies, just so she could help me trick my dad, her uncle Dave – or, as the cousins all called him, “Jungle Dave”.

The cousins. I’m the little one on the end…Andrea is five over from me. This is most likely the first time I met Andrea…though, to be sure, I don’t remember it!

Together Andrea and I taught Dad that if he asks for Hot Dog Cookies, he’s going to get them. And let me tell you, there’s nothing like Snickerdoodles with a slice of hot dog hidden inside.

I’m pretty sure he even ate one.

After that summer it was back to sporadic sightings of each other, but every time I saw Andrea, I was glad: our grandparent’s 50th anniversary, and later their 60th, family weddings and reunions. She even came to Minnesota for my wedding, and once, she came for work. My husband and I drove over to Rochester to see her that time, about three years ago. We had lunch and we talked about her cancer – briefly. It was easier to not talk about it. Easier to believe the doctor’s words that, while chronic, it shouldn’t be fatal.

That was bone cancer, I think…after the breast cancer and before the brain cancer. Before she couldn’t see to read, couldn’t walk, couldn’t play her piano. And it was before she got married, if I remember right. Andrea waited a long time to find the man who was perfect for her. She told us about him at my parent’s 50th anniversary, when we all met at the Washington coast to celebrate.

We were so happy for Andrea. They got married not too long afterwards. Two years ago? Three? Either way, it wasn’t long enough. Not long enough when you say your vows, believing that, “till death do us part” will still be a long way off, a distant and aged event you both can enter into, wrinkly and bent, but willing because you’ve led a good and long life.

She led a good life, yes. But not a long one.

It’s not fair. It’s all wrong.

The fingers that played are still. The voice that laughed is quiet. She told her family that she was looking forward to seeing her brother, also gone far too soon from a terrible disease. I think to even say such a thing was to acknowledge that she knew that hope, that intangible, wispy miasma, was gone.

Or, rather, is it this way? Was it hope which allowed her so say such a thing? Hope, faith, whatever you want to call it. She knew – as much as a human heart can – that she’d see her brother again someday because she knew Whom she had believed.

Faith in Jesus is what held Andrea together. When she wept, when she questioned “why”, when she cried out to Him that this was not what she wanted, it was faith and faith alone which enabled her to face death, knowing that it was not the end. It was merely a change in viewpoint. A new piece of sheet music upon her piano. A new word – or whole strings of words, of understanding – to add to her vocabulary.

“Where, oh death, is your victory? Where, oh death, is your sting?” 1 Corinthians 15:55. The sting of death was destroyed by the death and resurrection of Jesus.

We will see Andrea again.

Yes, Andrea’s body betrayed her. But her God never will.

For Hire: One (Experienced) Hay Truck Driver

The summer of my 14th year I was offered a job. As this job did not involve babysitting or vacuuming or pulling weeds in the garden, I was eager to take it on. I do not know why, exactly, I was offered this job. I suppose the people must have been desperate. Either that or extremely optimistic. Either that or they had never met me and just thought that, since they knew and liked my sister, they would know and like me as well.

Boy, were they disappointed.

I was uniquely UNqualified for the job. 1) I could not drive, and the job involved driving large vehicles. 2) I grew up with two sisters and zero brothers and the job involved lots of muscled, sweaty men spitting and hefting things and this intimidated me greatly because I did not understand men, did not know how to talk to them or behave around them, did not have any clue as to how to flirt with them and was far too shy to do so even if I did know how. 3) The job involved patience and focus…and I was easily bored.

But, given the choice of a job – and a paycheck – I said “Yes!” despite the little voice in the back of my head shouting, “RUN AWAY!”

And so my sister picked me up one hot August day – or perhaps it was July – and drove me over to the parking place of Occupational Hazard Number One (hereafter referred to simply as OH NO).

As we parked and got out of her car, I spotted a large, intimidating Hay Truck.

“Um…is that the vehicle I’m going to be driving?” I asked my sister.

“Probably,” she replied. “But it could be that one over there.” She pointed and I saw a mammoth truck looming over the farm yard. It was like The Incredible Hulk…or the Jolly Green Giant, minus the jolly parts.

At OH NO I met Nancy, my optimistic/desperate employer. I don’t think she was overly impressed with me. My sister hung around awhile, and then she drove away, leaving me behind, horribly nervous, and desperately shy of these unknown, sweaty men and the efficient woman who had hired them.

There was one person there whom I knew: my brother-in-law. He was always kind to me, teasing me and telling me to stand up straight. I have never asked him, but I have a feeling that, as he saw me hanging around that day, he had to have known better than to expect big things of his little, wimpy sister-in-law.

We piled into the cab of OH NO. I was smushed between my brother-in-law and a French Canadian guy whom I couldn’t understand and who smoked these appalling-smelling skinny cigarettes. I thought longingly of the babies I could be sitting on to earn my money and wondered how on God’s green earth bodies could smell so badly. And they hadn’t even begun bucking bales yet.

There were more guys riding on the back of the truck. Younger guys. A couple only a year or two older than me. I knew that there were girls who would give their eye teeth to be in my position. I was prepared to give my eye teeth to get out of it.

And then it was my turn at the wheel. My brother-in-law gave me a few pointers and set me free to wreck the havoc that he probably knew I’d be wrecking. They began tossing bales and I began driving V-E-R-Y S-L-O-W-L-Y. This was in part because I was supposed to drive slowly…but also in part because I had to shift, steer, and otherwise operate a gigantic vehicle when I had never, in my life, operated any kind of vehicle, ever.

It is a funny fact that a field which appears to be flat and level may be, upon closer inspection, very much NOT flat or smooth. If there was a tiny hump in the land, an itsy bitsy depression in the ground, I found it with OH NO. I stalled the truck. I heaved and lurched and abused the truck. And, in my attempts to NOT run over bales along the way, I managed to run over at least three which were lurking in the shadows and then jumped out at me in particularly vulnerable moments.

My view from the truck windshield. Think you could do it? Yes. You probably could.

I couldn’t hear over the sound of the engine, nor could I see in my rear view mirror as it was soon obscured by bales of hay…but I know…I KNOW…that I was being laughed at. Or perhaps cursed.

I was asked to drive two other times that summer. And, being a glutton for punishment, I did so. I think that somehow I thought this was good for me. A learning experience. A chance to broaden my protected and innocent horizons.

What it turned out to be was a chance to realize that I was in no hurry to get my driver’s license if this was what the future held. To accept that babysitting, while NOT my favorite way to spend time, was a way better way to earn a few bucks than this embarrassing gig.

It was also a chance to cultivate my keen sense of smell – to realize that men can be identified by their particular sweat – and to know that, should I ever come across that dreadful-smelling brand of French Canadian cigarettes again, I’ll be immediately transported to a certain hot hay field on Orcas Island where, to my chagrin, I proved my ineptitude as a professional driver.

Several weeks after haying was over, my sister came up to me and handed me an envelope. I eagerly tore it open and found myself staring at a woefully tiny paycheck. Turns out the owner of OH NO took the cost of the run-over hay bales out of my check.

I stared at my pathetic wages and looked up at my sister. “FOURTEEN DOLLARS?” I asked her.

But she didn’t answer. She was too busy trying not to laugh.

I was mad. I thought of the sweaty men, and the nasty cigarettes and the hot, yellow fields under the summer sun. I thought of OH NO, and the grinding gear shifts and the non-power-steering. And then, surprisingly, a little part of me smiled.

I had survived.

And I came out with a great story to tell.

King Turkey Day Extraordinaire!

When I moved to Worthington 15 years ago, there were several things that I had to adjust to. No, I’m not talking about the prairie or the weather or the figures of speech. Not this time.

This time I’m talking about things like King Turkey Day.

That’s right. King Turkey Day.

LOVE this.

Love, love, love this.

I should probably explain what King Turkey Day is…though, to be sure, it’s all a little hazy to me. As I understand it, Worthington, Minnesota clains to be the turkey capitol of the world. So does Cuero, Texas. And so they decided to duke it out with a turkey race. We race here…then, next month, we race there in Texas. It’s all very exciting. Overall, Worthington has won twenty-some times, I think, and Cuero like 18 times. So, yes, it’s been going on for that many years, though Worthington has celebrated King Turkey Day for seventysome years. They used to run an entire flock of turkeys down main street. Can you even imagine?! That would have been a sight to see.

These days there are just two turkeys…and a ton of floats. I have always enjoyed a good parade. There’s something patriotic about parades – no matter what country you’re from, the nation’s colors show up, national anthems are sung, politicians may even be present. The Turkey Day parade is no exception. Now, I admit, I do not fully participate in the King Turkey Days activities – and yes, I probably should. I have not tossed frozen turkeys, had a beer in the hallowed tent, or shaken the hands of the “other” guys from Cuero, Texas. Those things may be in my future, who can say. But I have, often, attended the parade. All two+ hours of it. And let me say, for someone who isn’t from here – and who, therefore, isn’t seeing hundreds of old acquaintances, returned home for the festivities – not to mention the fact that I don’t exactly love crowds – I feel like just being there is an accomplishment.

How great is this?!

Gotta love a little princess. Especially when riding on a Wood Duck.

This year, for the first time, I had the fun to actually being IN the parade. I had thought that I would be hidden away in the vehicle that pulled the Girl Scout float. I was wrong. I got to walk the parade, even though I never was a girl scout and I wasn’t even wearing the correct colors. I got to pass out boxes of cookies (“No, you can’t have one. You’re a teenaged boy, not a little girl!”) and I got to see the smiles on the faces of the wee girls as I handed them a whole box of cookies!! This was way more fun that I imagined it would be.

Waiting for the parade to begin…the wind, while a blessing for keeping us cool, was a bit crazy at times!

Two of our town’s lovely Girl Scouts!

Ok, so occasionally I gave out cookies to non-little girls. Ryan, the editor of our Daily Globe, was a fellow-thespian two summers ago and he just needed some cookies. And he has a daughter…so that’s my justification.

Let me back-up a little. Many of you know – but many of you do not – what being in the parade entails. It means you arrive at 12:45 or so for a parade that begins at 2:00. It means that, even though the parade begins at 2:00, you still have to stand around waiting your turn until almost 4:00 if you’re float number is 107, as ours was. It means that you drink bottles and bottles of water and that you kick yourself for not putting on sunscreen – and praise yourself for forcing it on your kids.

I love listening to these guys!

My husband enjoys these vehicles…I can’t even remember what they’re called, but they are kind of a hoot when they race around in circles…

Hanging out in the waiting line also means that you get to see all of the other floats pass your way. This is very fun and establishes camaraderie the likes of which I hadn’t seen since summer camp. It also makes for a lot of tired girl scouts. It also means that I had to miss my son in the middle school marching band because, like I said, I was stuck way back at #107 and he was #15. Bother. I heard the dulcet tones of Star Wars drifting to me on the wind once, at least, and that was fun.

Okay, so right up front I’ll tell you that this is a photo from last year’s parade, since, like I said, I couldn’t see the band this year. But it’s a fun shot. Even though we probably weren’t supposed to holler at him to look at us…

It also means that I missed seeing the turkeys race. Missed seeing Worthington’s turkey get beaten by Cuero, Texas’s turkey as they raced down mainstreet. Yes, I said raced. The turkeys race. If you’ve never seen turkeys race each other, relax, because I haven’t actually, either. The crowds are always so huge that I have never gotten a glimpse.

Here’s a parade entrant that I can’t help but be thankful for…though, to be sure, I hope to never know them better.

I also missed hearing the speaker. Missed my children gathering huge amounts of candy. (That was okay by me.) I was bummed to miss seeing the Worthington High School marching band, so am especially glad I saw them this summer. I also missed seeing local friends. I thought, erroneously, that I would see them all, that I would have the perfect vantage point. This is the dream of a novice. The view from the road, as I walked in the parade – passing the crowds on every side – is very different from the crowd’s view.

One girl scout watched me taking this picture and she said, “Did you get a picture of that pretty girl in the beautiful dress?” Yes, yes I did.

When you are in the crowd, you see everyone in the parade or on the sidewalks and you say “hi” a million times. Walking the parade means that your vision is tunneled…yet also focused. I saw lots of little potential Girl Scouts…but only about two friends, and that was because one of them had a little girl and one of them had my son and he had to yell at me about five times before I heard him.

They may not have been looking at me…but, even better, they were looking at each other…

I have to admit that I agreed to be on the float because I didn’t have much choice. It was either that or I would be a schmuck. So I said yes, and resigned myself to it. But here’s the beauty of the thing: I really, really enjoyed myself. No, I don’t totally “get” King Turkey Day….but, for the first time, I really, really liked it.

I Learn a Thing or Two While Delivering Meals on Wheels

Once upon a time a girl was asked to deliver meals to the elderly. She said she would do it, but please to give her an easy route. One that wouldn’t take her too long. One that would not cause her stress.

At a quarter to eleven the next morning the girl showed up, a little apprehensive, but ready.

She found her clip-board, consulted the addresses.

A door opened. Insulated bags proceeded a worker out.

“That’s my route!” the girl said.

The girl, not exactly knowing where she was going, grasped the bags with a smile and headed out the door.

She only had to pass the first house twice before figuring out which one it was. Running late already, she griped. I won’t be the first one done.

Then she unzipped the insulated bag. Oops! Wrong zipper. She unzipped a different zipper. Oops again! How many zippers does this thing have?

She found the right zipper, removed the proper salad and dessert, then reached for the second insulated chest for the meal. Oops. Of course. Wrong zipper. AGAIN. Good grief! This is no fun.

She knocked on the front door, remembered she was supposed to go to the back door, and scurried around the side of the house. Knock, knock!

“It’s open!”

“Lunch time!” she called, turning the handle and entering the laundry room.

“Come on in,” an old man’s voice replied.

“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting,” she said, smiling.

“You didn’t,” the old man said kindly. “You can park in the alley, though. Less of a walk.”

“Okay, thanks!”

“What’s your name?”

She told him.

“Ah, you’re Irish!”

The girl smiled. “By marriage, anyway,” she said.

The man smiled, held up the meal. “Thank you! See you tomorrow!”

“You’re welcome!”

That wasn’t so bad.

Then came the second house. She knew the street. Slowly, slowly, she cruised past. Too far. Where was it? Annoyed cars rushed past her as she turned. Circled the block. Turned again. Past it again. Past it again. Finally found it.

Knocking, she entered into the house. “Mobile meals! I hope I didn’t keep you.” This is becoming a mantra.

The smiling man said, “You drive a big white get-up?”

She nodded.

“Saw you go past a few times.”

The girl laughed, admitting the truth.

But the man didn’t mind. “What’s for lunch?” he asked, opening the Styrofoam tray. “Mmmm. Riblets.” He grinned.

“Enjoy!”

She had found the third house while passing the second, so that worked out well.

The next three stops weren’t too hard. Only had to back-track three times. Par for the course, right? Parked in the wrong spot, but it was okay. Probably going to be the last person back…

Friendly, smiling women. Talkative. Appreciative. Inquisitive.

Finally, just one place left. Phew! That wasn’t so hard. Even if she did park in the neighbor’s driveway by mistake. Good grief!

“Hi there! Mobile meals!”

“Come in. How’s the weather out there?”

“Not bad, pretty nice, actually.”

“I remember a terrible storm one time…”

And thus began a story, followed by more stories, followed by, “What’s your name?” followed by information the girl probably didn’t need to know, followed by advice and more stories, followed by medical facts, followed by, “What’s your name?” followed by a pause and a look as if the woman knew, somehow, that she’d asked that question before…

The girl got back into her car. Her eyes were full of tears. Chastised. Contemplative. She thought of her own grandparents that she had barely known. She thought of other old houses she’d been in, filled with other old people. Like the one she’d entered, years before, which surely hadn’t been cleaned in two decades or more, which, in addition to the dust and greasy dirt, smelled of unspeakable things. It is a scent she will never forget.

She thought of her own future, her hope that she’d never be alone, lying unfound on the floor from a stroke like the story she had just heard the chatty woman tell.

She thought, too, of the elderly woman she had met several years before while delivering meals, who had chatted with her so long and so eagerly and had even asked if she could add the girl to her Christmas card list.

The girl had agreed. And, when Christmas rolled around, she’d taken the envelope from the box and thought, now who on earth is this? And then she remembered as she read the two-page, typed-on-a-typewriter letter. And she couldn’t help but smile.

A few months later, the newspaper printed the woman’s obituary, and the girl’s heart ached for the woman she barely knew, but who wrote the most marvelous letters…

The girl returned to the hospital, brought the bags inside, replaced the checked-off clip-board onto its little shelf. It had taken her about an hour. One little hour from her life. A few minutes here, a few minutes there, and table after table of old people, their places set and ready – forks, spoons, knives, napkins, a glass of milk, a cup of water – all ready and waiting for their meals.

All ready and waiting for a visit.

The next day (“Ahh, it’s our Irish Girl again!”) it took less time, as I knew where I was going. But I stayed longer at each place.

Because it isn’t a race. It’s a blessing.

And I am the one being blessed.

Yes, There is a Fourth of July in Bangkok

You know that elementary school joke: “Is there a Fourth of July in England?” Of course there is! It’s just that it’s not Independence Day for them there the way it is for us in the US of A.

I’ve spent holidays in some unique places. Thanksgiving in Tunisia (let’s just say there was no turkey for dinner), several Christmases in West Berlin, Easter in Paris, and The Fourth of July in Thailand.

Spending your country’s independence day in a different country is bizarre. You feel patriotic and guilty, both at the same time. Kind of like when I traveled to the USSR in high school and all I wanted to do was chew gum…and I hate gum. It was this tenuous connection to the USA – something that made me feel American…as if I needed reminding when all around me was the Cyrillic alphabet, furry hats, and borscht.

When the Fourth of July rolled around in Bangkok the summer of 1989, all of the American ex-patriots were invited to the American Embassy’s front lawn for a down-home American picnic, complete with hamburgers, hotdogs, corn on the cob, and ice cream. There were games, too: three-legged races and tug-of-war. And, at the end of the day, fireworks.

Let’s just say that the American embassy in Thailand doesn’t have a very big fireworks budget.

But, that being said, that afternoon and evening stand out in my mind as one of the most memorable Independence Day celebrations I’ve ever had. Being away from home made home all that much more special.

But I think the best Fourth of Julys were spent on Orcas Island, growing up. Their budget – supplemented by tin donation cans at every island store all summer long – was a million times larger than the Thai embassy’s. Orcas Island had – and still has – the best fireworks I’ve ever seen.

When the sun goes down, round about 10:00 at that latitude, the people of the island – along with a gazillion tourists – line Eastsound Bay and wait patiently for the show to start. Out on tiny Indian Island (only slightly less unpolitically correct than its former name, “Jap Island”) – with fireboats floating at the ready – the pyrotechnics are about to begin.

Now, Orcas Island is an upside-down horse-shoe shape, and Eastsound Bay is at the top of the inner part of the “U”. All around the bay, then, is island and hills – big hills – hills which would be called mountains around here in Minnesota.

Indian Island is an itsy-bitsy island just at the head of the bay, which can be reached at low-tide if you’re booted up and keep a wary eye on the rising tide so that you don’t get stranded. It’s the perfect spot for fireworks, as any accidental fire is contained on the island, and you have this amphitheater surrounding it with space for hundreds of viewers, both on land and by sea.

So, picture this: you’ve shimmied across a narrow rock path to get to your favorite place on the beach. In the dark, no less. And now you’re sitting on a promontory, hearing the local YMCA campers singing campfire songs at the top of their lungs (the sound traveling across the water), hearing waves lapping a few feet away, and watching the star-strewn sky for the explosion of fireworks.

There are probably 25 boats out on the bay, sitting quietly at anchor. Occasionally the sound of laughter or popping of champagne corks comes faintly toward you, but nothing too obnoxious.

Then comes the first burst of color, the BOOM of powder, and the echo of it all ricocheting off the mountains.

Explosion after explosion, reflected on the water, in our eyes, in our hearts.

Now THAT, my friends, is how to spend the Fourth of July.

Happy Birthday, America.

Oh, the irony! 23 years after I spent the summer in Thailand, my husband went there for a few days and took the next several shots. Needless to say, the hotel across the river had a much larger fireworks budget than the US embassy…

Friends, Photos, and Fine Days

Everyone is busy right about now. Busy gardening, busy vacationing, busy running kids from place to place, busy relaxing.

Between the running around and the rehearsing (more on that in days to come) I’ve been busy reading. And washing my windows (thanks, Norwex) and throwing birthday parties that are only six months late. “Happy birthday,” Meep’s friends said to her, and she, very properly, replied, “Thanks”…rather than saying, “Acutally I’ve been ten for half a year already, it’s just that my mom is kinda behind the times.”

I’ve also been busy taking photos…and realizing that I really ought to read my camera’s instruction book…but that’s boring, so I haven’t yet.

So I give you today some photos and the memories that go with them from the past few weeks. The days have indeed been fine…though the epiphanies mostly center around the all-important question: “What’s for dinner?” as opposed to deeper things.

But that’s okay. It’s all good.

Most of the photos are self-explanatory, but let me explain the first two.

I may be wrong when I say this, but as far as I can remember, I’ve never made a point of meeting a “virtual friend” in the bright lights of reality…as opposed to the muted tones of the on-line world. All that changed early this month when I e-mailed my blogging friend, Audrey, at Minnesota Prairie Roots that I’d be visiting her town for a play and could we possibly meet up like at a park or something where the kids could play and she’d have ample oppotunity to cut our visit as short as she wanted…if she wanted!

Instead we got a warm invitation to their home, a delicious dinner, and made some “real-life” friends as opposed to merely virtual ones. Audrey and her husband Randy were lovely hosts. And, happily, our husbands hit it off and had plenty of things to talk about as opposed to standing around awkwardly and wishing that their wives would be a little less verbose.

Audrey’s hospitality extended to having games and sidewalk chalk ready for the kids, bandaides available for skinned knees, wild black raspberries ready for watering mouths, and freshly-picked strawberries and angel food cake for dessert. Does it get any better than that?!

How good it is to make a new friend.

PS – Audrey was recently “Freshly Pressed” (for the second time in her blogging life) here on WordPress – isn’t that cool? Please check out her blog if you haven’t before. (Being “Freshly Pressed” means that she was chosen out of thousands of bloggers to be featured on WordPress’s homepage. Neat, eh?!)

Randy and Audrey! Such gracious hosts and lovely friends.

The two bloggers – I’m the one in pink! So glad that I thought to myself last fall, “I need to look up some other Minnesota bloggers.” Serendipity for sure.

My house is hiding in there somewhere.

What is wrong with this picture?!

A typical view around here…

Cormorants and cranes…

So on our way to Audrey’s house we passed The Blue Angels!!

My neighborly “vulture”.

A small dish of deliciousness!

How random is this?

…a little closer! See her friends behind her?

…and here she is, a few days later!