Isabella Bird Miscellany

It is currently 91 degrees - this looks more than inviting It’s a warm late summer afternoon.  I’m sitting on the patio under dappled shade from the grapevines clinging to the pergola.  The fountain is bubbling away and my phone’s Pandora app is playing “How to Save a Life” by The Fray.  It’s not often that schedules allow for two whole hours without needing to do something – a lazy luxury. Listening to the various songs floating out of the pink and gray-clad phone, my mind wanders to a tantalizing pastime for such an afternoon…skinny dipping in a back road swimming hole.  Now don’t get all shy and embarrassed.  There’s an exquisite freedom of ditching the shorts and boots while hiking to have a refreshing swim in a crisp mountain stream or indulging in the natural hot spring you stumbled upon.  Even the hormone-driven teens heading to the river for a plunge understand the bliss. Speaking from experience, gliding through cool waters sans clothin...

This is the road I want to travel Stuck! Tail lights go whizzing by like streaks of red tracers on a bad trip.  The next moment, screeching sounds as brakes lock up and traffic is at a standstill.  How can you be flying along and then find yourself on a collision course with the Prius in front of you?  Why all the movement spurts in an everyday commute story that doesn’t make logical sense? Impatient, you peel off at the next exit looking for a way around the congestion.  Gridlock messes with us, insisting on its own annoying way.  Mindless of the inconvenience it doles day by day.  Ugghhh!  As you come to another stoplight and detour. Unless you’ve just come back to earth from some remote pie-in-the-sky- island where things like clocks and schedules and to-do’s have never been heard of, you know the treadmill feeling I’m describing.  We are up to our ears in the influx of truckage.  The freeway should be fast, the shorte...

Writing and Rewriting ... editing  doors open, the story begins                 opportunities present themselves some things materialize, become real, relationships are established                 bonds are created                                 but what holds them together, invisible glue?                                                                 ...

Living in a small town in Central Oregon means everyone knows every body's business.  You either love that people poke their noses where they might not belong, or you move to the city to get lost in the masses of people trudging like lemmings.  I lived that rural life until the early ‘90s. June brought warmer weather; the much anticipated graduation ceremonies and a circuit carnival so there would be something to do, other than driving out to the caves for the kegger-rage.  Having walked the ceremony a few years earlier, it was now my sister who had a turn at the pomp and circumstances. After the procession and speeches that drawled on, the family gathered at the local buffet and posed for the requisite photos with the diploma proudly displayed. Anxious to be done, we escaped to the carnival with its sparkling lights, tinkling music, midway rip-off games and the gloriously fast, twisting, topsy-turvy rides.   When you’re 18-ish you can still survive...

Dame Henrietta sits ostentatiously established on the sofa in my living room.  There’s a mood about her as she looks down her nose with a saucy expression on her face.  Henrietta is a stately old broad. Now, I’m not being disrespectful here.  Henrietta is the name I’ve given to the sultry, sassy ostrich on a pillow that rests all plucky next to some other cushions.  I like her.  She is bold and brash and especially tough, resilient and strong.  Dame Hetty personifies some traits that I do not possess. Henrietta’s feisty style and attitude will put you in your place, if need be.  She has a confidence that comes with being comfortable in her own craggy skin; all while being outfitted in grand ostrich feathers.  A chocker with a single drop bead circles her slender ballet pink neck, while elongated plumes embellish her headdress.  Her shoulders are demurely shrouded with soft, downy naps. What do I learn from Dame Henrietta the Os...

Young eyes, twinkling with mischief I was given the privilege of writing an obituary for my father-in-law this last week.  It seems like I have a theme going here, but it is all good.  This is a reminiscent rendering of the official account.  Dad Kitchell was a good man and will be missed by people around the world.  He travelled to 48 different countries, spreading the good news of great joy.  That is how I choose to remember him as well…full of lively merriment! Jim Kitchell lived. He was more than statistics on a page; a man of the cloth, an adventurer; my daddy-in-law’s commanding presence filled a room. Jimmy, as his mother called him, was born on October 30, 1929 in Denton, Montana to Dewey and Ruth Kitchell.  They named their baby boy James Bruce.  He was surrounded by four sisters:  Gayle, Virginia, Joanne and Jeanne.  He delighted in pestering them with his antics.  His quick wit and endearing smile charmed all....

One of Dad's duties: driving the Army Chaplin Time passes; our memories wear away.  So I’m scribbling memories on paper to file them in boxes in my mind. Friday marks an indelible day.  It’s when my Dad left his earth suit.  He’d been living with congestive heart failure for a number of years.  We were never totally surprised to receive the “Dad’s been transported to the hospital” phone call.  This was just another of th0se occasions.  Visiting at the hospital, Dad looked fine or at least a fine as you can with IVs and monitors.  We joked and he gave the nurses a hard time.  He enjoyed the teasing banter. Memorial Day weekend was our annual slog to go camping in Central Oregon.  My brother and I decided we were going to stay home.  It just made sense, Dad was in the hospital.  Uh, oh…Dad was fit to be tied.  He told us we were not to change our plans.  If we didn’t go camping, he’d give us the what for....