Posts tagged “home

mountain home

while in the salt lake valley for the family event and celebration that I mentioned in the last post, i found myself standing in a restaurant parking lot with camera facing east

i heard a young female voice to my left saying “excuse me sir…what are you taking a picture of…?

“is there a bird up there on a lamp post or something…?”

“i’m taking pictures of the mountains,” i said, “aren’t they beautiful?!”

her response….”you must not be from around here”

Bells Canyon…like a memory

From the archives…June 15, 2017…heading toward the falls….

Twin Peaks from Dimple Dell Trail

It’s a sad song, but it struck me the other day that I have now been back in Arizona for longer than I had lived in Utah….and this little gem of a photo has been sitting in my “drafts” folder for over five years.  This particular day in March of 2013 found me walking the neighborhood trail called, “Dimple Dell,” and gazing eastward at the beautiful mass of rock and earth known generally as the Wasatch Mountains and specifically as Broads Fork Twin Peaks (only the western peak is visible; it’s the one on the right).  I had posted other images from the hike…maybe even some that looked very similar to this one…which probably explains why it was sitting in the “drafts” folder for so long.

Anyway, they are always bittersweet and tender moments when I look back and reflect upon what used to be in my backyard…at what was just a few minutes’ driving time from the house.  And there it is….

Twin Peaks from Dimple Dell Trail

Heading North Again….

Another glimpse of the locale from my trip north in June of this year….

Some of the images may look familiar, as I have already posted similar photos taken from different perspectives.

I will be heading back in a few days…a gift from my children…bringing me to the mountains…since they can’t come to me.

Fall in the Wasatch Mountains is awaiting…

…like granddaughters’ arms…to embrace me.

A Glimpse at Bells Canyon’s Upper Falls

After my daughter and I hiked to the lower falls, as featured in this post, we continued up the trail for about another hour and then arrived at the upper falls.  Amid the spray and the treacherous footing on the soaked boulders and ground, it was difficult to manage another angle that would have provided a better or more clear perspective or presentation of this natural water-feature.

We stood in literal awe for several minutes, shifted our positions to gain different perspectives, stayed there again for several more minutes, and then retreated a bit into the woods that we had just come through to approach the falls.

You can still see the falling water through the trees to the right and behind my daughter in the above photo, so you can probably imagine how loud it must have been to be so close.  There was a pervasive serenity, sitting there in the woods, even with the roaring of the falls as near as they were…with the crashing water on the granite boulders and then the rushing of the stream in front of us….

White patches up in the trees caught my eye….

What a refreshing spray after the steep hike to get there…melted snow…living water….

Just a little further downstream is a bridge that has been chained to the trees on both sides of the bank to prevent the rising and rushing stream from carrying it away.  There is a trail that you can take off into the shoulder-high brush that will lead you in a near circular manner out and up to the area just upstream from the top of the falls…and will also eventually lead you to the upper reservoir and beyond.

If you’d like to see an image of the falls later in the season, you can click here to see what they looked like in August of 2013.

Thistle…in isolation

The day had been long and filled with the concerns and wonders of traveling from the desert to that mountain place…stiff legs wanted to stretch…confined body wanted release…and the heart wanted to burst with joy at returning to a place that had been branded as “home” in its core.


Tucson Mountain Silhouette

Tucson Mountain Silhouette 2

Old Doors and New

I was at first stunned by the clarity of the image and then by what I noticed when I actually looked at the keys and what they meant, what they were and are in their time.  This is my wife’s key-ring and keys…and most of the keys belong to locks that she no longer opens…some of them no longer exist, literally, and others might still be there, somehwere, in a city and a time from not-so-long-ago, but because of the context of her life, and mine and ours, there is no reason to possess them, for they will no longer be used for anything…other than to add mass to her key-ring…or to open doors to memories of that other life in that other place where things were familiar and made sense, before they became what they are to her now, and then.  But there are new keys, too, new keys to open new doors with new possibilities…and new memories….

This New Place Called “Home”

In contemplating this wondrous place, I thought of the many things that might be the same or different from the places I’ve been before, the places where I’ve lived and dreamed, stumbled into happiness or fought against raging rivers of sadness or woe, where I considered the options when evaluating mistakes and misfortunes, wrong turns and stupid decisions and thoughtless acts…I pondered those places of hearth and home, those comforting domiciles, living arrangements, quarters, and other stopping places along the way where my life has become what it was and is, those sundry places filled with memories of tender smiles and belly-laughs from little ones and big alike, where that first picture of that first three-month-old has become several walls and picture-walls of photos and portraits and captured moments of these and our many lives, where the echoes of celebrations and sounds of sadness mix and mingle like tasty and alluring aromas from the kitchens of our minds where peace and harmony become one with the rest of life and cause us to know that it’s going to be ok, whatever comes, because we have each other and we live and love and that’s what matters.

I also thought about the view on my way home from work yesterday as I looked eastward toward the mountains and couldn’t find them because of the foggy inversion substance that covered the sky, that blocked-out in its whiteness anything that might be beyond some hundreds of yards.  I looked up and out to where the mountains used to be and found the blanket of white extending to the gone place, so I looked higher to where they could be and found them there, yes, above the mist of commerce and progress and upside-down air-streams.  I found that the milky white yielded in the up-above to allow a vision from a different world where other planets exist just beyond our reach and where sister moons adorn the heavens in their orbit above us.  These and my mountain tops were revealed in their peachy glow from the setting sun, through that vapor below; they were their own white and rocky selves sitting and suspended in the white nothingness, hanging there rich and immense and like little else that has existed in my life.  Mountains have been there, yes, in childhood and young adulthood alike, but many years ago and rarely with the immediacy and full presence as these are in their heights and wonder.

This place has become a mix of many things and an absence of others.  We are two families from one that now live together and see each other in a constant weekend visit and continuous marvel that it is so.  There are many dishes in the sink and different foods in the fridge, four (or three) cars in the driveway and many pairs of shoes about.  Tiny footsteps mix with older foot-stomps and dog toes and nails and slippered feet that slide and move about the dark wood floors and lead us and each other around the chilled and warmed and windowed house that is home with its ice-cold tap water and scalding hot, hot water that is there immediately to warm icy fingers and digs deep into the muscles and bones in a morning shower or “hot bath” that soothes a certain trembling soul.  The holidays brought a pan or pot of desert cacti to bless the shared home office of a little one and his mom, calming a sad memory of a place that was and is in the used to be, a place that jumped onto the TV screen as we watched Forrest run-ning, that deserted and desert-ed place that somehow pulled on the heart-strings of that same cactus-loving little one, tarnishing an otherwise happy few hours…as life is life and sometimes sadly borne…but happy now on the following morning as he watches his cars racing through an animated image of the same place and then, his joy speaking loudly in the quiet house, full of glee and happiness, and that’s how it is right now.

I dreamed the other night of my return to that former place, plugged-in and along-side those who used to be in my charge.  We laughed at how little I remembered and knew, marveled at how slow my fingers had become in typing into the screen those letters and numbers and words that would send help on its way.  They thought it was funny that I had returned, funny that I was with them and there again, and funny that I was down from the pod, that elevated place where commands were given, where eyes watched and ears listened to the goings-on from the phones and radios and people who worked them and do.  It was funny and light and strangely comforting, and when I awoke I wondered at what had happened to make it so.  There was a big empty space between what happened and then, no indication as to what had caused the return from here to there, from this life to that life, from these mountains to that desert-place, and from now to then.  It was a dream, of course, but from whence did it come, which part of my psyche spoke loudest in that sleeping place…hope or despair…longing and sadness, expectation of what might come…or simply missing that and those in the familiar?  I know where my heart is, but it has many places within it, many places that are touched and can be touched by those other loved and loving ones who live in this tender place, this home in home, this wondrous surround that is marked by adjustment, realignment, compromise, the unknown, and hope. 

That precious one, my precious one, told me the other day, that two times in that day, not once but twice, she felt that she was home.  She felt that the rooms were hers and this place in its place was what she wanted and where she wanted to be; it was an emotion and sensation that was fleeting and strange, yet welcome to her mourning soul, her saddened spirit, that longing heart that wanted to return to that former place in that earlier time, that place where the place was comforting and dear, even in its discomfort and un-ease, simply and only because it was that home-place and familiar, that spot in her physical existence where she had been for so long that it was natural and right to belong and long to be there…even though she had wanted to leave for so many reasons, so many reasons that are still real and valid and real and important and immediate and then, yes, and conflicted in emotion and want, desiring the place and the time of the past for what it held, while wanting the place and time of the present and future for the hope that it holds, for the hope that it holds.  She said that, then, my precious one.

So this new place called Home is and is becoming that sacred place and sanctuary, that harbor in the storm of life where we lash ourselves to the docks of security while we replenish our supplies of strength and endurance for what lies ahead, those things that come without our bidding and assail us so, and bind us tighter to those we know and love and with whom we weather those storms when back out on those seas and tempest tossed…and here we are…in this new place called Home.

Dos Viejitos

I happened upon two viejitos today.  A former gangster in knee length “Dickies,” also wearing his telltale sweat-rimmed straw hat.  A rock pipe was recently put away and the cigarette in his nervous hand twisted and rolled with a life not its own.  Surging varicosed veins edged nearer the outside of his moreno skin.  “Ay, bueno Senor.  Estoy buscando a un hombre que se llama ‘Jessie.”  Una persona me dice que El vive aqui.  Conoce el Senor Jesse?  Es Usted, no?”  My source had been right as rain, jellied as jam.  And correct.  Then came his friend, Victoria, la otra querida de la pacienta original.  She shares needles and sex with the original patient, Sylvia.  The two, lovers and needle partners times seven years, also take their wares into town to sell on the street.  Anything to get that extra bit of rock or heroin.  Anything.  Stifle life and ruin hope.  Cease the smile.  Encourage no light thought.  It is gone.  Recapture love and affection.  Effect.  Affect.  El otro Viejo fue en un otro lugar, hablando con una Negrita, si, una prostituta, con quien el tuvo sexo anoche.  This man was much darker-skinned than the other and wore the style of clothes often seen on an older Mexican man living in this country – dark tan work-pants and a shirt of matching color.  Bare-footed, he followed me into the yard where we could talk out of ear-shot of the young, black woman sitting on the couch in his “living-room.”  Proudly displaying the lengthwise scar in the center of his chest and the other scar that divided his right calf, the old man denied suffering from any malady other than the ones which had delivered his proud scars.  He, too, lived exactly where Sylvia had told me that he could be found.  In the projects behind the Edgewater Apartments, “It’s right there off the road, number twenty, and it has a black screen door covering the regular one.  You can’t miss it.”  And, so, I didn’t.  I found his hovel, his nest, which smelled like unwashed hair and cigarettes.  I found his home.  Home.  Where the heart is.  Sweet home.  The place like no other, adorned in reflection of the lives therein, or gone.