Summer Idyll

Summer in Montana is such an idyll. With rivers to float and lakes to paddle and creeks in which to soak, we seem to build our days around which body of water we plan to jump in. The boys are finally old enough to take up Missoula's number one summer recreation: the float. This involves innertubes, some sunblock, and a long, lazy stretch of river. We drop in, float for several hours as the river winds us between tossing cottonwoods and willow brakes. The osprey wing overhead. The swallows dip and dive. In a few hours, when the river has carried us far enough, we get out, pack up the tubes, and get ready to do it all again. Soon.

Our garden is in and making good progress this year. The poppies were a riot of red for a solid month. When they had finally run their course, I immediately began missing them. There are few things so dependably and deeply cheering. Now the Shasta daisies are blooming and the rudbekia is filling in. The bees are heavy in the lavender and Corin just plants himself beside the lavender patch and watches them at work. Tim, the vegetable garden warden, warns me zuchinni are heavily forecasted for later in the week.

The boys and I joined some friends camping last week. We had our cars packed with tents and sleeping bags and swimming gear and sand pails and sleeping mats and marshmallows and tea pots - just the sort of camping I disdained and vowed never to do before I became a parent. It was a great trip. We plucked a few huckleberries, jumped in the lake, made s'mores. When the boys went to sleep, dropping off easily beneath the tent flaps, I sat and watched the sky, the stars bright and blinking between dark-boughed ponderosas.

And so the days drift by. I keep thinking I'm sure to hear R. Frost's oven bird one of these days, calling its mid-summer song ("the question that he frames in all but words/ is what to make of a diminished thing?"). But I guess my answer to summer's impending end is to jump in the creek, float the rivers, pick raspberries, roast marshmallows, take a picnic up a mountainside, kick back in the grass under the blue blue big sky.

Father's Day

Yesterday, on Father's Day, I received several pictures from my grandfather of his father, Carl Johnson. Among them was the picture above: my grandfather as a young boy (between Corin and Seth's present ages from the looks of it) sitting with his parents. I love this picture for many reasons, among them that my grandfather looks very much himself. There is something about him that has held steady all these years, resisting change despite the eight and a half decades that have been added to his life since he and his parents sat, that day, for the photographer.

One of the pleasures of receiving photographs of one's ancestors on a day set aside for honoring fathers is the quiet harmonic this creates between then-time and now-time. It is easy in the course of dailyness to forget we owe our very lives to continuity that extends far beyond us. But here are some pictures that remind me of the story in which I stand.

My dad: this is the last picture that was taken of the two of us before his subdural hematoma two summers ago. Thankfully his was a complete recovery, but this picture still chills me as it captures us hiking-tired, happy in the sunshine, and unaware of how close we'd come to losing him in the next six weeks. We stand atop Cathedral Ledges, a favorite family hike (taking the Boulder Loop Trail, of course, and finishing by wetting our feet in the river that runs along the Kancamagus). Never one to miss the vista, my dad enjoyed, that day and always, the getting there and the coming back. In this he is not unlike a famous New Hampshirite who once wrote:

Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.

It seems that shortly after our hike, my father would climb a paper-white trunk toward heaven, till the top dipped and set him back down. And how grateful I am for that "coming back."

My paternal grandparents, Howard and Florence Joss: This is a picture I took of them, having paused the film of their wedding day in 1936 and applying my shutter to the screen. I love their smiles, my grandmother is radiant as she was her whole life, my grandfather looks entirely happy and proud. Grandfather Joss died when I was in third grade and I remember little of him beyond the tremendous jars of pennies he collected, the way he called my grandmother "Doll," the warmth with which he joked with us children.

This seems an appropriate Father's Day photo. Taken last month in Pennsylvania, Tim and his dad confer about bait while the boys await their turn to fish. And below is the sweet little sunny who obliged to be caught (posed for a picture and released).

And a final Father's Day shot. Taken several years ago when Corin was not quite three and Seth was a baby. Tim, wonderful father, strolls with his sons. The ridge ahead is filled with light and shadow, like all life. Carrying one, a hand on the head of the other, Tim walks, drawing them along, up the path.

Kwaheri Than

Kwaheri - is swahili for goodbye, or literally for joy. My cousin Than, who has been doing grad school in Missoula for the past two years (and spending a great deal of prime studying time at my kitchen counter streaming Manchester United games and drinking highly sweetened chai), moved from Missoula today to return to Kenya. He has been a regular part of life at 706 Howell over these past two years, a sometimes soap-employee, a master at the grill, a great uncle to the boys and a willing wrestler with them, a cheerful pusher of the jogging stroller on our runs. When next I'm hiking with the kids and have to carry both boys downhill, I will miss my walking companion and fellow pack horse - just as I will tomorrow when I set out only one mug for midday chai.

So, Than, if you read this, all joy to you, kwaheri. You'll be missed. The kettle is on. Rooney just scored for ManU. We'll see you soon, Mungu akipenda.

Our Fair City

Missoula is a happily situated town, the beauty of which seems to present itself when one gets a bit above it. Tim and I took the boys hiking up Mt. Sentinel last weekend. The trail leaves from the University and in a series of steep switchbacks climbs toward a huge concrete "M" - the city's most obvious landmark (could there be a more literal use of the term?) - fixed to the mountain's side.

Mount Sentinel is the far eastern boundary of the Missoula Valley and the town spreads out, ambling west, below the pitch of the mountain. The view from there is a good one and the boys had a great time picking out parts of their known world - the airport in the distance, the bridge over the train tracks near our house, the park they like to frequent, and the river winding the length of the valley. It is good somehow to see our world from above, to see how expansive the land and how nestled the town, to see the valley bend away in the far west where our vision cannot follow.

My boys on the M

Missoula's north hills are tinged yellow with arrowleaf balsamroot, a bright, silver-leafed member of the sunflower family. It grows in squat clumps all over the hills and is in full and glorious bloom on south facing slopes. Today I took a run and saw the lupine are soon to follow. At this time of year I can't keep away from the hills. I tell Tim I'm going to take a short run, I'll be back soon, but then I find myself veering toward the hills expectantly. Next week, when whole hillsides are full with deep blue spires of lupine blooming aside bright and broad arrowleaf balsamroot, when the meadowlarks are singing, and the rain is pulling across the far end of the valley in dark squalls, I might just have to sit down and give the rest of the day up for loss (or gain).

In other news - Tim invested a hefty sum in the Flowbee last year. You may remember the flowbee commercials from the mid 80s. This special "As seen on TV" item is a hair cutting system that requires the use of your vacuum. I was skeptical, but now after having more than made our money back by not spending on numerous children's haircuts (and several adult ones as well), I have converted to the Flowbee way of life. Thursday night was hair cutting night at this house - the boys all got fresh dos as did Than. So there's my product testimonial - if you have squirmy kids and a good vacuum, make the investment.

Flowbee

Happy Easter

A bright Easter here in our corner of the world:

Egg hunting:

A Corin moment:

A Seth moment:

Ice cream break:

Seth with his princess posse:

Spring break has just passed us by. On Wednesday, I was on the phone with my friend Ann watching a squall dump sleet on our doorstoop and making plans to meet up somewhere indoors when Ann said, through a sigh, "This is such a misnomer. It is neither Spring nor a break." All week long, we dodged intermittent snow storms and drizzle on our outdoor forays. And Seth spent the later half of the week dodging in and out of a fever and sniffles.

This weekend however, made up for it in spades with a glorious, long awaited, riot of sun. The whole town seemed to be trying to restock on vitamin D in one compact weekend as people with winter-pale legs donned shorts and hit the trails, nodding to each other with wide, giddy grins. We took a picnic to the park, broke out a yardful of sports equipment (soccer balls: 4, wiffle bats: 3, wiffle balls: 7, batting tee: 1, bikes: 4, frisbee: 1 bright orange cones: 6) and generally moved between sunny patches.

While the boys played tackle frisbee in the yard, I made good use of Saturday afternoon's sun by running up Waterworks, along the ridgeline, and down the other side to drop in on Kara for tea. Along the way, I saw mountain bluebirds flitting bright against the straw-colored roll of the land, and stopped to watch a red tail draft upward. Later, Kara and I walked up the side of the hill behind her house, and watched the evening creep across the valley. Somewhere near us, a western meadowlark trilled its lilting song, leaving me foolishly, dreamily, happy. More sun is forecasted for the week, as is school for the children. Two facts which tickle me with their promise of an embrightened return to routine.

Indoor Camping

Watching a Bald Eagle

Gray Day at the Creek


Seth bidding adieu to snowman remains

March Snow

And so it snows.