Under a Red Roof

Bits and a Remembrance

April 19, 2013 in Friendship, Gardening + Nature, Remembering by Colleen | Permalink

I am reading Mark Spragg’s Where Rivers Change Directions, savoring the pulse of a life vastly different than mine, yet so much the same: friendship, hard work, the confusion of love, loss, the dynamics of family, intertwined with a rural Wyoming life, much of it spent on horseback. Normally I am a swift reader, devouring books in short order, but this one will be eked out, pages pored over, a slow eddy in a vivid stream of thought.

…

My dad worked nearly his whole adult life at Coors, and when I was a kid he was on the swing shift, the majority of our shared moments spent in the brief window before I left for school in the morning, him sitting at the head of the dining room table, reading the Rocky Mountain News. The first time I remember being alone with him was on summer vacation, most likely, or some rare sunny weekend with him off work, running errands in our sky blue Monte Carlo (I loved that car!), no seatbelts and me peering over the dash in the front. In another first, we stopped at a convenience store, and he let me pick out a treat. There was no dawdling in my choosing, a bag of Circus Animal cookies, the allure of pink and bright sprinkles too dazzling for my girlish heart to pass up. I’d never tasted anything like them, which was made better by the fact that my Dad bought them for me, on a treat of a day, and I didn’t have to share, though I did, with him.

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I had my second shirodara treatment last night. It is an Ayurvedic practice where warm oil is slowly dripped onto the center of the forehead. The hubster says it sounds like some form of torture, but that could not be farther from the truth. It is calming and peaceful, great for this spastic writer’s mind. I highly recommend it, along with my practitioner, the kind and knowledgeable Rose. That and my morning yoga practice have me floating today, despite a heavy heart over the tragedies of the week.

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Last weekend was one for labor, donning garden trousers and wellies. I fertilized the lawn but did not mow before it rained, so it is a wild emerald belly tickler for the birds, cats, and squirrels. The hubster joined me on Saturday and Sunday to cover half of the front yard in a multitude of cardboard and bark mulch in preparation for native plantings this fall. I love the look of a woodland, dappled shade and rambling wild berries and ferns, so that is what it shall be. We also dug new beds in the back for blueberries, strawberries, and rhubarb. I am proud to say I did it all without so much as a blister, which is rare.

…

And today, this afternoon, a bath to wash out last night’s oil, and a walk with my sweet friend Amy. It just gets better…

Ferret

April 5, 2013 in Remembering by Colleen | Permalink

I wonder if there is a quotation somewhere, one not revealed to my constant digging, that asks, as we pass that middle of life, if we spend near as much time reminiscing as we do in the here-and-now. Sometimes I get lodged in that past space, cozy and hateful of disturbance, moments of the fil-um of my life rendered with such stunning clarity that I simply want to stay. If only I knew the proper handshake or combination of words and gestures, I might actually step behind the curtain of my fading memory to reveal all.

In the mean time, I collect snippets and ferret them away for safe keeping, like these spent with my brothers, two and four years my junior.

Running wild and barefoot and fast, fast, faster, down hills on a bicycle without brakes.

Splashing in cheap plastic wading pools before dashing through icy cold sprinklers in Underoos.

Turning out elaborate Matchbox car cities of dirt, rocks, leaves, and soaring imaginations.

Frittering away the time in the creek. Fashioning shoe laces into crawdad lures.

Playing baseball, swinging, spinning, and spending hours as badminton-playing tennis idols on the back lawn:Ivan Lendl, Bjorn Borg, John McEnroe.

Eating popcorn in a circle of sleeping bags on the same lawn, eyes darting in a mad satellite search.

Dawdling on the path from school, coats fastened into fantastic flapping capes.

Diving grimy hands into the cookie jar to rise triumphant and crumb laden before demanding, “What’s for snack?”

Huddling around games of Monopoly, Clue, and Hungry Hungry Hippos.

Conjuring games of “lava” and “wu-tang.”

Fighting for our favorite cushion on the couch.

Tromping and digging caves in the snow.

And laughing, so very much, at everything and nothing at all…

Volley

March 18, 2013 in Loving, Remembering by Colleen | Permalink

I love how the little blooms out front have begun their languorous opening volley to spring, the accompanying sense of hope and wonder in the tiniest of offerings. Hummingbirds have laid claim to the nectar, daring in their proximity, mere inches from my weeding and trimming.

The hubster and I were lying in bed Saturday night, bone tired but full of words, and I asked him to tell me stories of way back when. Apart for the first two years, driving on weekends between Arvada and Fort Collins and writing letters during the week because a stamp cost a lot less than a long distance phone call. We were kids, but our love felt so grown up, playing no games with our hearts.

We did all the things we do now and then some, camping and skiing and snow shoeing, long walks and hikes, discovering new-to-us restaurants. Then there were the hours tucked away in dark theaters and coffee shops, eager for each other and the words that filled the space. And the silence, too, holding hands and gazing at the pink of the horizon, a sliver of moon, or a canopy of stars, dreaming of what we’d become, but mostly grateful for all that we were at that very moment. Together and happy, the luckiest people on earth.

Tags: Gardening + Nature

Strange Day

March 15, 2013 in Learning, Remembering by Colleen | Permalink

I awoke with a start Monday morning, 3:45 on the button. The vise grip of some dark apparition around my left arm. As someone with a very high tolerance for pain, I was more than peeved. I wriggled and stretched and rubbed and won that first round, drifting back to sleep after about an hour. When I rose, it had returned and gotten worse, even spreading to my shoulder and back. I felt nauseous and it became increasingly difficult to fill my lungs. Then I remembered the cheesy “Just a Little Heart Attack” video with Elizabeth Banks, and wondered if I could be having one.

I dialed the advice line quick-like, and the nurse, when I described everything, told me to get to the hospital, and pronto. “Do not take a shower!” So the hubster zip-zipped our golden chariot to the emergency room in record time. Upon my arrival, I got a wheelchair and EKG stickers in places I’d never have thought to check. Sure enough, my little heart was at a full gallop, and that damn vise was no looser on my left arm, either.

The nurse asked if there was any possibility it could be a panic attack, and to quote a recent callous observer of my life, “Colleen, you have no real problems.” I concurred, despite the fact that having no real problems does not equate with a lack of feelings, save in the observer, the biatch. Until my arm got ensnared by some unseen evil, I’d been pretty snazzy.

So, more tests. I got my blood expertly drawn, twice (no bruising!), a chest x-ray that made me feel like I’d stepped into the world of the Incredible Hulk, and, saving the best for last, an ultrasound of my left arm, because, dag-nabbit, it might smart like a heart attack but be a right and proper blood clot, for those run in the family.

And this is where I must make note of the idiosyncrasies of medical professionals. On Monday, the nurses who drew my blood complimented my good veins. “So plump I could stab it without looking.” The ultrasound tech, who joked that he learned to use the machine over lunch, said, “Wow, you image very well. Look at that valve!” Then I remembered back to my hysterectomy and my anesthesiologist uttering, “You have a beautiful spine. I would love to give it an epidural.” And, finally, the nurse who emptied my catheter bag, holding the pitcher of urine like a trophy, exclaimed, “You have beautiful pee!” It’s a different world.

And back to mine. Despite the excitement and wonder my body provided and the battery of tests and nearly six hours spent waiting and wondering, no single resolution was made. I, Colleen Sohn, remain a person without any real problems. For the sake of speculation and for someone somewhere to get a good chuckle, the likeliest source of my horrible pain? A trio of muscles, the left bicep, deltoid, and pec pulled while sleeping or applying body oil. Oh bother, and a whole week thrown off kilter.

Happy Friday!

p.s. The photo is a detail of Richmond Burton’s “Echoing Green” at the Portland Art Museum. Pretty!

Loaves and Fishes

June 15, 2012 in Celebrating, Remembering by Colleen | Permalink

When I was in Denver, after every single visit with a friend or family member, in that very private place that was my rental car, I would cry. Sometimes they were tiny tears, stopped with a widening of the eyes and a deep sigh. Others were trickier, that salty-sweet spill on my lap and hands as I drove and sang to Radiohead or Iron & Wine. Worst, or best, actually, in hindsight, were the variety that came in a torrent, and I pulled the car to the side of the road while they did their work. I just saw someone special to me! They were right there and we hugged and laughed and talked until my throat was sore! So very many cough drops, my friends.

Then there were the times when the tears could not wait, like with Kelli when she was driving, or during lunch with Hef, and with my parents and grandparents, and when I caught my first glimpse of Wendy in the distance, the very first time since high school (that’s twenty-three years, math lovers).

Then I got home, standing at the curb at the airport, and the hubster pulled up with this light in his eyes, so happy to see me, and we hugged for the longest time before taking the long way home, so I could see the city I love a bit more slowly.

And the other day, to celebrate another year of Colleen Sohn on this marvelous planet circling the sun, I had friends over. We ate and drank and talked and talked. And they humbled me with straight from the heart kindness and thoughtful gifts, but mostly their warm presence in my life.

So the title. All of this makes me think of that story, and how there was enough and more from impossibly little. My life is like that. Every time I think there couldn’t be more kindness or love, someone shows me. Every time I think life couldn’t be more beautiful, flowers bloom. A friend calls. A bird sings. A cat purrs. The hubster smiles. Music plays. I round the bend and there is the Saint John’s Bridge.

Shining examples of how good it all is.