I was born and raised in Vermont – the great training grounds for shoveling – and spent my youth perfecting both an appreciation and a technique. Under the tutelage of a perfectionist brother, I learned the details and downfalls of clearing driveways, steps, porches, and sidewalks. Even after a 23 year break in California, I’ve not forgotten the lessons.
This weekend Denver and the foothills broke a few records with snowfall. I’m pretty sure it all fell in my backyard, because by Saturday morning I was digging through 42” of champagne powder. Thanks heavens it wasn’t Sierra Cement or that awful, icy, slushy stuff in Vermont that New Yawkers still insist on calling snow. I used to call it hell.
Shoveling snow, I’ve discovered, is a social activity. It’s infinitely more enjoyable to have a partner, neighbor, pet, to help pass the time. It’s a great way to get caught up with neighbors you never see, even neighbors you don’t know. I learned one neighbor was vegetarian for 18 years, another installed spikes on his mountain bike tires so he can get out in even the crappiest weather, yet another still lets his Jack Russell terrier out off-leash and the tiny pooch couldn’t figure out how to get around so much snow in order to get home. And yet another neighbor’s dog, a charming, blue-eyed Australian shepherd, can still dig his way out from his secure dog run and make the rounds.
Living in the mountains is, in itself, a work-out. From dodging hail stones in late summer afternoon thunderstorms to dodging dodgy drivers on Colorado freeways, there’s always something to keep your heart rate up. But there is no better full body, aerobic, out-the-back-door workout than shoveling snow. It engages your arms for digging, legs for bending and walking, torso for twisting and balance, and back for straining. Trust me on that last one.
I’m not a snowmobile enthusiast, not do I like ATVs, dirt bikes, or chain saws. I’m a human-powered purist and when it comes to shoveling snow, snow blowers are cheater’s fodder. I use a big, burly, metal grain shovel with a D-handle, too, not one of those wimpy plastic deals that ends up in the trash after one season.
There are four ways to throw the snow. Like a tennis match, each lob carries a different direction and spindrift. Left hand on handle, right hand choking up on shovel, fling forward, it’s like a return on an odd forward backhand. Reverse that to right hand on handle, left hand choking up on shovel, fling forward, and you’ve got that odd backhand #2. Left hand on handle, right hand choking up on shovel, fling backwards over right shoulder and I’m reminded of the children’s song about your ears hanging low, do they wobble to and fro (can you tie them in a knot, can you tie them in a bow?), do you throw them over your shoulder like a Continental tow…? You see where I’m going with throw #4. But in the end, it’s a ballet, each toss ending with an awkward arabesque. I’d like to see Baryshnikov work a few shovel loads.
You can tell a lot about people by how and what they shovel, if at all. Do they toss it into chaotic, hurried piles? I probably don’t want to see the inside of their homes. Are they considerate of their neighbors, contemplating how the snow piles they create will affect another’s movement? That’s the great distinguisher of their preferred interest in either selfishness or community. Do they seem to have a plan of attack, attending to the geometry of their lot, organizing how, what, and when they shovel into useful constructs? That’s a good mind and, I admit, my brother’s methodology. He would cut the snow in hearty cubes, gracefully lifting the white box to its final destination, a little easier to accomplish with the slabs in Vermont than the fluff of Colorado. Then he’d build the piles at a distance first in order to leave room to fill forward as the volume grew. No surprise he’s been a happy woodworker all his life.
Mostly, though, shoveling snow is a mountain meditation. There might even be room to come up with a new yoga style: snoga. There’s an odd, lumbering meditation to the digging, walking, tossing, asana-like concentration of it all. After all, that’s how I came to imagine this piece.
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Community
When our heavy snows fell a month ago it buried food sources for the deer and elk population. Elk can be hardier simply given their ominous size and reach, but deer can have more of a challenge rooting about for grain. This year, in particular, because last spring’s snows were so heavy and fell so late, the does fawned late too and their babies seem to have just barely outgrown their spots before winter.
I feed the bird population and, inadvertently, the squirrel population but haven’t been motivated to help the deer until this season. I found reasonably priced bags of corn and, immediately after the 23” of powder fell, drew a line in the snow with piles of it. Within a few minutes I had 14 deer devouring the prize. They returned for a few days and, when the piles of snow subsided and bits of lilac branch and tuft reappeared, wandered off for fresher meals.
Except for a lone doe and, eventually, the small family of a four-point buck, his harem doe and her twin scruffy fawns. I’ve named the buck White Face because his entire snout from nose to eyes is white and, unless I’m mistaken, at least one of the nearlings bears similar markings. I haven’t named the others yet – they’ll let me know when it’s time.
Much as I’d selfishly like to tame them enough to eat out of my hand it’s doom to their safety. Like hungry feral cats when I step outside they know food is on the way but are uncertain of the messenger. I coo and talk quietly to calm them while walking in their midst with a big bowl of corn, yet they dart away until I pour the corn in their now habitual feeding arena. Then they settle in, ever wary, crunching and mawing the feed.
Today was different. A third fawn arrived with the family and competition was higher than I’d seen. After a few moments feeding, White Face methodically drove everyone else away. I deposited another bowl of corn ten feet from him under another tree and the doe and three fawns began feeding on that until the doe drove the new fawn away. These posturings continued until I stood on my stoop with another small bowl of corn in anticipation of placing it somewhere safe and apart for the renegade fawn.
And then it simply stopped. They all fed peacefully and, when done, dropped forelegs first and settled into rest position to chew their cud. White Face lay apart from the others, watchful of his brood. Then they rose and moved on.
This is my home. This is my community.
I feed the bird population and, inadvertently, the squirrel population but haven’t been motivated to help the deer until this season. I found reasonably priced bags of corn and, immediately after the 23” of powder fell, drew a line in the snow with piles of it. Within a few minutes I had 14 deer devouring the prize. They returned for a few days and, when the piles of snow subsided and bits of lilac branch and tuft reappeared, wandered off for fresher meals.
Except for a lone doe and, eventually, the small family of a four-point buck, his harem doe and her twin scruffy fawns. I’ve named the buck White Face because his entire snout from nose to eyes is white and, unless I’m mistaken, at least one of the nearlings bears similar markings. I haven’t named the others yet – they’ll let me know when it’s time.
Much as I’d selfishly like to tame them enough to eat out of my hand it’s doom to their safety. Like hungry feral cats when I step outside they know food is on the way but are uncertain of the messenger. I coo and talk quietly to calm them while walking in their midst with a big bowl of corn, yet they dart away until I pour the corn in their now habitual feeding arena. Then they settle in, ever wary, crunching and mawing the feed.
Today was different. A third fawn arrived with the family and competition was higher than I’d seen. After a few moments feeding, White Face methodically drove everyone else away. I deposited another bowl of corn ten feet from him under another tree and the doe and three fawns began feeding on that until the doe drove the new fawn away. These posturings continued until I stood on my stoop with another small bowl of corn in anticipation of placing it somewhere safe and apart for the renegade fawn.
And then it simply stopped. They all fed peacefully and, when done, dropped forelegs first and settled into rest position to chew their cud. White Face lay apart from the others, watchful of his brood. Then they rose and moved on.
This is my home. This is my community.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Twilight Time
Lucy on the Lake - With Diamonds
When I was a kid I used to wait on our dock at Lake Fairlee for the sun to drop and shimmer a long line of light from shore to shore. If I dropped my eyelids halfway and looked through my eyelashes the light would break into sparkles, like diamonds, and the lazier my eyelids and perception became, the more distinct and starry the diamonds would become.
My footsteps around my Colorado lake make a deep frozen crunch again tonight. The downtown bank sign glares 3 degrees Fahrenheit. I’m glad to escape that urban measure into my own zone. I think I’ve dressed warmly enough – start cold and you’ll warm up – but I have to cover my cheeks with my gloves. My hair has enough moisture to freeze into crackly wisps and I think Jack Frost has landed.
The same frozen, wispy pallor hangs over the lake and trees. The skyline is every color and no color, layering from a wan blue to pale pink and back. I’m out a little earlier tonight and it’s a different world.
And if I take off my glasses and drop my eyelids the scene becomes a water color, without any edges, just shapes of color and snowy diamonds on the lake. The ice at the far end is steaming in the extreme cold and it whomps and bumps as I walk by, cracking under its own expanding pressure. Twilight dims quicker now and the sky holds on to its final muted colors.
Fox tracks along the shore wander out into the middle of the lake and disappear in the whiteness. More tracks meander along the shoreline and I ask ‘where’s your den?’ as if, could they hear me, they’d reply. Past the dam where the stream still flows, a chattering of mallards stops me to watch, their tails quivering and quacks piercing the cold. I wonder what they eat? I’ll find out and bring them something tomorrow.
When I was a kid I used to wait on our dock at Lake Fairlee for the sun to drop and shimmer a long line of light from shore to shore. If I dropped my eyelids halfway and looked through my eyelashes the light would break into sparkles, like diamonds, and the lazier my eyelids and perception became, the more distinct and starry the diamonds would become.
My footsteps around my Colorado lake make a deep frozen crunch again tonight. The downtown bank sign glares 3 degrees Fahrenheit. I’m glad to escape that urban measure into my own zone. I think I’ve dressed warmly enough – start cold and you’ll warm up – but I have to cover my cheeks with my gloves. My hair has enough moisture to freeze into crackly wisps and I think Jack Frost has landed.
The same frozen, wispy pallor hangs over the lake and trees. The skyline is every color and no color, layering from a wan blue to pale pink and back. I’m out a little earlier tonight and it’s a different world.
And if I take off my glasses and drop my eyelids the scene becomes a water color, without any edges, just shapes of color and snowy diamonds on the lake. The ice at the far end is steaming in the extreme cold and it whomps and bumps as I walk by, cracking under its own expanding pressure. Twilight dims quicker now and the sky holds on to its final muted colors.
Fox tracks along the shore wander out into the middle of the lake and disappear in the whiteness. More tracks meander along the shoreline and I ask ‘where’s your den?’ as if, could they hear me, they’d reply. Past the dam where the stream still flows, a chattering of mallards stops me to watch, their tails quivering and quacks piercing the cold. I wonder what they eat? I’ll find out and bring them something tomorrow.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Bandana Bob
My friend Bob died last week. His memorial service was held Sunday. I wasn’t able to attend but he deserves this moment of my, and your, time.
Bandana Bob we called him because when he worked tending bar at Strawberry Inn in Pinecrest, CA, he always wore his beat up do-rag. Always blue, always tied just above his piglet of a pony tail. He could hustle a full bar like nobody’s business and still manage to fill the room with big guffaws. For all his free-thinking ways he still believed in “excuse me, please, and thank you” and if someone forgot their manners he’d stare them in the eye and ask “what’s the magic word?”, withholding their order until they acquiesced. No one ever dared call him on that practice, probably because he was right.
Bandana was a skier – he loved nothing more than spending the day at Dodge Ridge during the season or backcountry when Sonora Pass opened up. He met and married Lynda back when we worked together but only with the proviso that, when ski season started, she wouldn’t see him for the next nine months. I skied with him only when I felt in top form; for a guy 20 years my senior he whipped my ass on every run, all day long.
Bob was very much his own man, a renegade. He was an old hippie with more stories and jokes than a stand-up comic, every one of them heartachingly true. When I first met him he’d been sober for 25 years and I always admired his pluck that he could face his demons and overcome them every time he stared down that bottle behind the counter. Not just overcome, overwhelm them with his bravado. But then, he tackled everything that way and we adored the courage of his convictions.
The old dude hadn’t been well for the past many months. He’d been confined to a wheelchair after a freak infection and surgery and just declined from then on. I suspect he missed strapping on the planks, shooting the bull with friends in the locker room, looking forward to charging down the hill on a day that was always better than the one before.
It’s an odd moment, to remember someone who could only make you smile and yet cry because he’s gone. It’s difficult to understand our own mortality much less try to comprehend how someone like Bob could die. He was supposed to be, no, he was, eternal.
Oh, and I almost forgot my manners. Thank you, Bob. For just being you.
Bandana Bob we called him because when he worked tending bar at Strawberry Inn in Pinecrest, CA, he always wore his beat up do-rag. Always blue, always tied just above his piglet of a pony tail. He could hustle a full bar like nobody’s business and still manage to fill the room with big guffaws. For all his free-thinking ways he still believed in “excuse me, please, and thank you” and if someone forgot their manners he’d stare them in the eye and ask “what’s the magic word?”, withholding their order until they acquiesced. No one ever dared call him on that practice, probably because he was right.
Bandana was a skier – he loved nothing more than spending the day at Dodge Ridge during the season or backcountry when Sonora Pass opened up. He met and married Lynda back when we worked together but only with the proviso that, when ski season started, she wouldn’t see him for the next nine months. I skied with him only when I felt in top form; for a guy 20 years my senior he whipped my ass on every run, all day long.
Bob was very much his own man, a renegade. He was an old hippie with more stories and jokes than a stand-up comic, every one of them heartachingly true. When I first met him he’d been sober for 25 years and I always admired his pluck that he could face his demons and overcome them every time he stared down that bottle behind the counter. Not just overcome, overwhelm them with his bravado. But then, he tackled everything that way and we adored the courage of his convictions.
The old dude hadn’t been well for the past many months. He’d been confined to a wheelchair after a freak infection and surgery and just declined from then on. I suspect he missed strapping on the planks, shooting the bull with friends in the locker room, looking forward to charging down the hill on a day that was always better than the one before.
It’s an odd moment, to remember someone who could only make you smile and yet cry because he’s gone. It’s difficult to understand our own mortality much less try to comprehend how someone like Bob could die. He was supposed to be, no, he was, eternal.
Oh, and I almost forgot my manners. Thank you, Bob. For just being you.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Life Lessons from Bradford
Almost four weeks ago a little ball of fluff made its way into my home and my heart. Just three weeks old, the tuff guy wasn’t even weaned. However he came to be alone on the front lawn of the American Mountaineering Center I’ll never know, but these past weeks have been remarkable.
Bradford, named after Bradford Washburn of the American Mountaineering Museum, is a tiny brown tabby with a white nose and white paws. He’s moved from hand-feeding formula and His Human cleaning up Anywhere Poop to voraciously devouring his special moist food and meticulously visiting the litter box. In just this short time he’s grown from one pound to almost two and even prefers using the big boy box that requires him to scramble over a high entry to do so.
I’ve watched this little guy with amazement. His instincts have kicked in at every turn. Every day brings some new discovery or behavior and even without his real Momcat and litter mates, he is the Poster Child for Kittenhood. And he continues to teach me about life, happiness, and the enchantment of each day. So I share with you the lessons I’ve learned so far:
Play hard. But for every hour of play get at least two hours of rest.
Don’t be afraid of your own shadow. But if it’s the Evil Lord Felinor, be prepared for battle.
Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.
No need to clean your plate first time – if it’s good enough then it’ll be even better as a snack later.
There’s something playful to be found in everything.
Sometimes a swat from someone older is well-deserved.
If you like someone, keep trying. If he mellows and lets you get closer, it’s probably worth it. But if he continues to growl and hiss, best to walk away.
It’s okay to be sure you’re a tough guy, but it’s also okay to let someone else be Alpha.
Being alone is okay. Being in the company of others like you is even better.
If you’re going to climb up something be sure you have a way down.
A couple of good stretches upon waking can really get the blood flowing.
Oh, and it might not be rude if someone’s staring at you – it might be that he adores you.
Bradford, named after Bradford Washburn of the American Mountaineering Museum, is a tiny brown tabby with a white nose and white paws. He’s moved from hand-feeding formula and His Human cleaning up Anywhere Poop to voraciously devouring his special moist food and meticulously visiting the litter box. In just this short time he’s grown from one pound to almost two and even prefers using the big boy box that requires him to scramble over a high entry to do so.
I’ve watched this little guy with amazement. His instincts have kicked in at every turn. Every day brings some new discovery or behavior and even without his real Momcat and litter mates, he is the Poster Child for Kittenhood. And he continues to teach me about life, happiness, and the enchantment of each day. So I share with you the lessons I’ve learned so far:
Play hard. But for every hour of play get at least two hours of rest.
Don’t be afraid of your own shadow. But if it’s the Evil Lord Felinor, be prepared for battle.
Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.
No need to clean your plate first time – if it’s good enough then it’ll be even better as a snack later.
There’s something playful to be found in everything.
Sometimes a swat from someone older is well-deserved.
If you like someone, keep trying. If he mellows and lets you get closer, it’s probably worth it. But if he continues to growl and hiss, best to walk away.
It’s okay to be sure you’re a tough guy, but it’s also okay to let someone else be Alpha.
Being alone is okay. Being in the company of others like you is even better.
If you’re going to climb up something be sure you have a way down.
A couple of good stretches upon waking can really get the blood flowing.
Oh, and it might not be rude if someone’s staring at you – it might be that he adores you.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Michael Reardon
There are times/moments when people who've left us resurface. My dear friend Matt Samet and I share how much Michael resurfaces in our lives. It is haunting and beautiful at the same time. Michael died in 2007 and his memory is as fresh now as it was that day bouldering on Flagstaff Mountain...this is my tribute.
I didn’t meet Michael until months after we’d had long conversations on the phone about dreams and possibilities, for our common online projects and for ourselves. Michael’s enthusiasm was infectious – I wish his intelligence had been, as well. I felt like a third grader trying to understand AP Calculus when I spoke with him. But it made him no never mind. He loved what he was doing, loved his wife and best friend, adored his daughter, and kept the faith strong that something wonderful would turn up for each of us and soon. He’d be damned if it didn’t and said so in so many words.
I finally met him in person around a Ryan Campground campfire in April of 2005. I was in Jtree for three weeks of climbing and Michael was a rock. Struggling on a classic 5.9 and working my ass off to pull a power move through an overhanging crack crux, Michael free-soloed on an adjacent route, calmly offering words of encouragement. “Come on, Martha, it’s completely within your ability levels.” Those words have become my personal mantra.
I loved Michael. He loved all of us back more. He had that unearthly capacity usually reserved for visionaries and it was exquisite. At our little agape fests, he’d slam dunk us with news of some absurd-sounding project he’d just aced, then listen and comment with the same fervor about our own mini epics and epiphanies, ours rarely as grand as his. It didn’t matter. We were here and as long as we were living large and doing the best we could at the moment, it was all any of us cared about. We could be hung over from the previous night’s tribute to Dionysius, raw because we were just betrayed by a friend, or ecstatic from conjuring up the latest derring-do. It just didn’t matter. We loved each other’s dreams and whimsy and how we never stopped trying.
Here’s the key to accepting that Michael is gone: he grew too big for this world. His heart, his skills, his mind and focus were limited by his humanity here. In his 42 years (and the little dipshit told me forever he was 36 - I’ll chuckle about that well into my own Crossing Over) he became what we all wish we could be – timeless, fearless, priceless, almost untouchable.
Someone told me once that when someone we love dies, a piece of their soul imbues our own for all time. Michael, I’m stuck with you. Listen here, my good man - in spite of the fact that Ireland has called you home, I’ll always live large and do my best in the moment.
And I’ll always be 42.
For Mícheál O'Ríordáin - An Solas Geal Lonrach. Son, Husband, Father, Friend. Inspirational Free Spirit. 1965-2007.
You are greatly missed.
I didn’t meet Michael until months after we’d had long conversations on the phone about dreams and possibilities, for our common online projects and for ourselves. Michael’s enthusiasm was infectious – I wish his intelligence had been, as well. I felt like a third grader trying to understand AP Calculus when I spoke with him. But it made him no never mind. He loved what he was doing, loved his wife and best friend, adored his daughter, and kept the faith strong that something wonderful would turn up for each of us and soon. He’d be damned if it didn’t and said so in so many words.
I finally met him in person around a Ryan Campground campfire in April of 2005. I was in Jtree for three weeks of climbing and Michael was a rock. Struggling on a classic 5.9 and working my ass off to pull a power move through an overhanging crack crux, Michael free-soloed on an adjacent route, calmly offering words of encouragement. “Come on, Martha, it’s completely within your ability levels.” Those words have become my personal mantra.
I loved Michael. He loved all of us back more. He had that unearthly capacity usually reserved for visionaries and it was exquisite. At our little agape fests, he’d slam dunk us with news of some absurd-sounding project he’d just aced, then listen and comment with the same fervor about our own mini epics and epiphanies, ours rarely as grand as his. It didn’t matter. We were here and as long as we were living large and doing the best we could at the moment, it was all any of us cared about. We could be hung over from the previous night’s tribute to Dionysius, raw because we were just betrayed by a friend, or ecstatic from conjuring up the latest derring-do. It just didn’t matter. We loved each other’s dreams and whimsy and how we never stopped trying.
Here’s the key to accepting that Michael is gone: he grew too big for this world. His heart, his skills, his mind and focus were limited by his humanity here. In his 42 years (and the little dipshit told me forever he was 36 - I’ll chuckle about that well into my own Crossing Over) he became what we all wish we could be – timeless, fearless, priceless, almost untouchable.
Someone told me once that when someone we love dies, a piece of their soul imbues our own for all time. Michael, I’m stuck with you. Listen here, my good man - in spite of the fact that Ireland has called you home, I’ll always live large and do my best in the moment.
And I’ll always be 42.
For Mícheál O'Ríordáin - An Solas Geal Lonrach. Son, Husband, Father, Friend. Inspirational Free Spirit. 1965-2007.
You are greatly missed.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Orion in the Sky
Maybe somewhere in the Southern Hemisphere
There’ll be room for all this love
Where they’ve saved a place for innocence
And what is still mysterious
And their dreaming time…
It’s winter and Orion is back. Orion the hunter I follow every clear night walking home, night-skiing, or just star-gazing. He is a favorite constellation and midnight mentor.
In the southern hemisphere, Orion orients differently in the sky and in Spanish America it’s called the Three Marys, referring to the three prominent stars we know as Orion’s belt.
In Bolivia a micro-industry is thriving. In the 1990's Quechua and Aymara village women were organized into Save the Children – Bolivia and adopted the name Artesanias Minkha. Their goal? To feed their extended families as well as their children. Their means? Hand-knitting beautiful alpaca sweaters in the recognizably Bolivian style. There are now 45 families sustained by the income they make through the cooperative. The women have not only greatly improved their lives and those of their families, but they take pride in their craft and positive feedback for their work. It is entirely owned and run by the indigenous women – there is no western interference other than orders placed from North American buyers.
Evo Morales is the first modern indigenous president of Bolivia. As with most minorities who see the folly the international majority misses in itself, he has challenged greater world powers and the mouse still roars. Because he protests the authority of other governments over the autonomy he intends to develop for his people stiff sanctions have been levied against his country by the US.
Are we still hateful toward the Indian, any Indian?
Now is it too much to ask in a lifetime
For just one shot at happiness?
Because our government is displeased with the choices of another government, importing any of what should be considered Fair Trade goods is impossible. Import taxes and duties are prohibitive. And who suffers? Not the governments. Always the soul of any culture; its people.
So the women of Cochabamba I’m sure pray faithfully to the Three Marys that as sole wage earners they’ll continue the ability to feed their families. I have given up and rail at Orion that from his post as watchful hunter he’s incapable of standing up to the global folly.
Thanks to Shawn Colvin for letting me use her title and lyrics.
There’ll be room for all this love
Where they’ve saved a place for innocence
And what is still mysterious
And their dreaming time…
It’s winter and Orion is back. Orion the hunter I follow every clear night walking home, night-skiing, or just star-gazing. He is a favorite constellation and midnight mentor.
In the southern hemisphere, Orion orients differently in the sky and in Spanish America it’s called the Three Marys, referring to the three prominent stars we know as Orion’s belt.
In Bolivia a micro-industry is thriving. In the 1990's Quechua and Aymara village women were organized into Save the Children – Bolivia and adopted the name Artesanias Minkha. Their goal? To feed their extended families as well as their children. Their means? Hand-knitting beautiful alpaca sweaters in the recognizably Bolivian style. There are now 45 families sustained by the income they make through the cooperative. The women have not only greatly improved their lives and those of their families, but they take pride in their craft and positive feedback for their work. It is entirely owned and run by the indigenous women – there is no western interference other than orders placed from North American buyers.
Evo Morales is the first modern indigenous president of Bolivia. As with most minorities who see the folly the international majority misses in itself, he has challenged greater world powers and the mouse still roars. Because he protests the authority of other governments over the autonomy he intends to develop for his people stiff sanctions have been levied against his country by the US.
Are we still hateful toward the Indian, any Indian?
Now is it too much to ask in a lifetime
For just one shot at happiness?
Because our government is displeased with the choices of another government, importing any of what should be considered Fair Trade goods is impossible. Import taxes and duties are prohibitive. And who suffers? Not the governments. Always the soul of any culture; its people.
So the women of Cochabamba I’m sure pray faithfully to the Three Marys that as sole wage earners they’ll continue the ability to feed their families. I have given up and rail at Orion that from his post as watchful hunter he’s incapable of standing up to the global folly.
Thanks to Shawn Colvin for letting me use her title and lyrics.
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