Notes From A Bear's Journey

   Last night I got a drubbing.  In the U.S. that's sort of slang for a lickin' or a bawling out or any of a dozen other terms that mean a "talking to."  Another art print had arrived and despite my defense that I donate most of them to charity fundraisers (and get them at heavily discounted prices since art just doesn't seem to be much of a market these days), even I had to admit that these prints were piling up.  Just what are you going to do with them, she asked.  Things keep coming into this house and never leave, she said.  You're a collector, a hoarder, a good person but what exactly is this thing about getting more and more stuff, she asked (from her eyes, this was a serious talk).  You can't take it with you!  And here's what I got out of it...I had become my mother.  I used to wonder and chuckle a bit as my mom would gather whatever she could, even with her dementia; but we're talking things such as bananas (which would just ripen and turn

   Without belaboring the point, the quick return to "normal" is a bit odd to me; the news continues to arrive as scheduled, as do the bills, the stores continue to stock their shelves, the people still smile and chat as if nothing has happened.  But wait, I am now a motherless child.  A friend I spoke with had it much worse, her parents perishing in their 50s from a car accident, similar to what another friend told me about her parents.  So no complaints on my part, really.  Everyone should be so lucky to have a parent live well into their 90s.  But life ending...and continuing...and ending.  Real, but mildly so even when it is right there in my face for as terrible as it might seem to me, I am not faced with the difficult and horrific images of war or famine or tragedy where the unexpected end of life does nothing but surround you.  The new Philip K. Dick series Electric Dreams presented a glimpse of two such worlds, one well into the future and one confusingly based in th

   So first off I apologize to many of my friends and some family members for taking so long to call them back when they have expressed their condolences.   Losing a parent, or sibling, or even a close pet, hits everyone in different ways sending some into silence or onto the shoulder of a loved one, or sometimes into depression or a haze of empty bottles, be their liquid or pills.  For me at least, that hasn't been the case as my brother and I continued to share a few lasting moments before he departed, a weeklong sounding board of familiar and yet warped reflections (since we were seeing them through different eyes).  And yet, the commonality was seared into our heads once we stared at my mother's ashes, the reality of all that we knew, all that we shared, all that we came from was now sitting there as indistinguishable as what was sitting in our fireplace or what rested scattered on the ground after a blaze through a forest...it was all a place to which we too would return,

   My mother passed away the other day.  Gone, adieu, reduced to ashes.   There was no polite or easy way to put it for she was simply not there, at least not physically.   A generation, a ton of memories, a shaper of lives (hers, mine and others), a giver (including that of giving me my entrance into this world), a wife and widow, a survivor, an independent and stubborn-headed woman...all no more.  When I wrote a short tribute to her so that those in her assisted living facility could know, I mentioned that when someone passes it seems that we are expected to sum up their lives in pretty much standard ways...where they worked or what they did for a living (funny how we prioritize that), how old they were or how many children and grandchildren they had.  But my definition of my mother was simple; she was a gentle soul.  As it turned out, the hospice doc was right to accelerate the time she had left, which resulted in my calling my brother who, within 12 hours, had cancelled everything,

   The call came at 11:30 at night...my wife's mother was heading to the emergency room at the hospital.  The news was not good, and despite a battery of both tests and treatments, her 88-year old body was suddenly like an old carburetor struggling to run properly.  Things were suddenly and unexpectedly going wrong, from balance to memory to frailness.  In just a matter of days, she was being faced with trying to piece together the very real possibility that her life might be nearing its end.  We cancelled everything, my wife sitting by her mum's side in the hospital, watching another nurse or technician give a test or draw more blood or slap a mask on her mum's face or tell her to move this way or that.  After the third day my wife had to ask, was this all really necessary?  And the end result of all that testing?  Her mum was sent home to face palliative care, a service designed to help reduce her anxiety or pain but not the unseen tornado of thoughts drifting

   Our city is rather small compared to major metropolises such as Los Angeles or Cincinnati, but you wouldn't think that from the traffic or from viewing the number of apartment units being built (and still hearing that there is a shortage of housing).  This state is still primarily a Mormon stronghold, even if the city of Salt Lake itself has diluted its population to just half that, a sign of the urbanization effect by companies such as Adobe and Goldman Sachs among others.  But among many of my Mormon friends I have found only generosity, openness and a genuine willingness to give of their time (and no, nobody has ever tried to "convert" me).  To be honest (and this holds true with me for many religions) I know little more than an inkling about the religion's beliefs, but one thinig I understand is that tithing is part of their obligation, something commonly practiced by most religions including Islam, Christianity and Judaism; for the LDS church , the 10% tithe

   The past few days found me down with some sort of bug, a powerful version that left me sleeping for most of the day and thus shattering my hopes of "down" time to catch up on some reading or to watch a movie or two.  This bug would have none of it; just getting up out of bed was a major effort, my head spinning and my energy as zapped as an exhausted marathoner...I even had dreams of being drugged and unable to wake up.  But right along with all of that, I knew that I had to continue drinking water; as repugnant as this seemed at the time (drinking or eating anything was not in the books), I dutifully rose up after about 12 hours in bed and gulped down just under a liter of water...then back to bed.  It was like a car with dirty oil; I knew that my body was battling away and doing its best to fight off this rapid infection, but if I didn't give it help to clear out the mess, to help my kidneys and liver clean their filters, then what sort of odds was I giving myself? 

Photo of the St. Croix River courtesy of the Nature Conservancy    St. Croix River, Minnesota...buried in cold as the new year begins, the Arctic chill making its way down from Canada and bringing the moisture and cold with it.  I've never been there.  But it's history was briefly captured in Audubon's 2017 calendar:  It is found along a section of the St. Croix River that forms the border between Minnesota and Wisconsin.  The area's natural history includes flowing lava, flooding by ancient seas, and earth-moving glaciers.  Its human story goes back 10,000 years, from prehistoric farming settlements, residency by the Dakota and Ojibwe peoples, and clashing cultures; through fur trading, logging, and steamboat travel; and up to its current protected status.  By the twentieth century, the land on both sides of the river was secured in the nation's first interstate park to prevent mining in a scenic gorge.  Then, in 1968, the river itself was among the first to be