Middle Schoolers Know Everything

Middle Schoolers Know Everything

By,
Jennifer E. Miller

I added to my scope of volunteer experience and am helping with the yearbook committee at the kiddo's school. This year, a class of 7^th and 8^th graders will design and compile both the elementary and middle school yearbooks. The class teacher is excited I could help, and I was looking forward to it, too. I write. I snap photos. I can help with yearbook. It will be fun, I told myself.

It’s only the third week of class, but already I have a deeper understanding why some animal species eat their young. I had all but forgotten one important characteristics middle schoolers: they already know everything. 

Keeping thirteen/fourteen-year-olds focused is like demanding a toddler to nap after consuming caffeine. When the teacher is giving the day’s lesson plan, the kids multitask. By multitasking, I mean tripping each other in the classroom, being dramatic about the resulting boo-boo and making the girls giggle about it. Other times, they kick one another’s chairs, or somersault over the carpet. This instigates peers to point and laugh while others bark at them to shut up and listen. They insist it can all be done while mindfully attending to their assignment, once they've asked for the details a second or third time. I’m curious how teachers survive an education career while maintaining a functional level of sanity.

The students arrived to the yearbook class with their own visions of what it should entail. In other words, it must be a cake class. An easy way to earn a passing grade. On the first day, they quickly decided on a design plan for the elementary book. Although creative, the discussion went something like this: 

"Hey how about if we design the book with such-and-such and accent it with yadda-yadda."

"Yep, sounds good."

Surely, their reason for speedy decision-making was to allow more time for chit chat. But I easily caught on to their rouse. To keep them on task I asked, “That sounds great. What do you think you should do next?”

One boy rolled his eyes. “Um, duh. Now we wait for people to give us photos.”

With a grin upon her face, the teacher gave them a glimpse into their future as yearbook editors.

“Well, in fact, you guys will be responsible for collecting most of the photos. You will be required to attend events and activities to photographically document them.”

Insert teenagers wrinkling noses, curling lips, and scoffing at not getting their way.

“You mean we actually have to go to stuff?!” one girl exclaimed.

“Yeah, like, who has time for all that?” another said.

“You can’t be serious,” a boy grumbled, with a slight an eye roll.

“Yes, I am serious. One or two of you will be present during various activities,” the teacher explained. “You guys will be taking ownership of the yearbook production.”

Snobby snuffs of disapproval puffed out of their noses. They were certain that there was no need for them to "actually do stuff." 

“But...but...but...for all the other yearbooks, parents provided the photos,” the boy whined. “It’s unfair that you want us to do it now.”

Unfair. Welcome to real world, kid, I thought.

One student brightened. “Hey! That means we can go with the elementary kids on their field trips.”

“Oooo. Skip class. Yessssss!” agreed another.

“Nice try, but no,” their teacher said.

“Ohhhh,” the class said in unison, disappointed.

I tried lifting their spirits. “You know, as the photographer, you essentially are an observer, rather than a participant. It gives you a unique perspective.”

Once again, middle schoolers know everything.

“Whatever. We just have more work now. It should've been enough to organize the books in the first place.”

I wanted to ask if they thought it would be enough if their parents only gave them shelter, leaving the responsibilities of cooking and paying bills for them to deal with. I wanted to inform them that even though a boss gives a stack of papers with a deadline, it doesn’t mean he or she won’t add more duties. Effort, in any of life’s aspect, doesn’t simply begin and end; its continuous. Seeds can be planted in dirt, but need nurturing even when they sprout into plants. Water alone won’t always do. Insects will need to be kept away, leaves pruned, soil tilled. Care is ongoing.

The effort they put into their lives, and the yearbook, is also continuous. The end result depends on this, and on their flexibility to adapt to life's little surprises. It was apparently surprising to them to be responsible for taking photos for the yearbook; you know, a book full of photos.

But, I forgot, middle schoolers already know everything.

This will be fun, I reassured myself.

Camping Adventures

Camping Adventures

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

(Alternate names used for privacy but to maintain story simplicity.)

It’s that time of year for our family’s annual camping trip. I’m not sure why we like to spend half a day packing up a carload of stuff, drive for an hour, and pay a nominal fee to sleep uncomfortably inside a meager soft-sided structure which holds no protection for things like bears or psychotic murderers. Maybe it’s the endless cricket chatter as we drift off to sleep. Or the eerie dead silence at three am when we are awoken because of nature’s calling. It could dalso be the s’mores and hotdogs. At any rate, this year we changed things a bit. We left the boat at home, in favor of our bikes to ride on the paved trail. That’s when the trouble started.

Our bike rack only holds two bikes so we borrowed a larger bike rack from the neighbor. Everything was going smoothly until it came time to secure the bike rack to the hitch. Tom decided he didn’t need the pin that was made for the bike rack and left it with the neighbor. One of his own must be better than the OEM. As you can guess, it didn’t work.

We couldn’t reach the neighbor to retrieve the part, which left no choice but to figure out another option. Since our rack only held two bikes, we secured Gia’s bike to the luggage rack on top of our SUV. Placing the bike on its side brought forth a new issue: it could possibly scratch the roof of the vehicle.

“Does it really matter?” I asked. “The car is twelve years old.”

“I don’t want a big scratch up there.”

“It’d be on the roof. No one will see it.”

“It could rust a hole in up there.”

“A sunroof would be nice,” I pointed out, trying to keep some optimism. We were already an hour passed our preferred departure time.

“It will rust quicker than you think,” Tom grumps.

“You said you wanted a new truck in the next couple of years anyway.”

No response.

“I’ll just place a towel under the bike.”

“Are we ready yet?” complained Gia. She had been waiting on the front steps, eager to leave home and, no doubt, eat her share of s’mores.

“Almost,” I said.

To speed up our departure, I assisted strapping down the bike. I grabbed a bungee cord and tightly wrapped one end around the bike and the other end to the luggage rack. Now all I had to do was hook the ends together and voila! We would finally be on our way.

Anyone who is familiar with the temperament of bungee cords, knows that you never pick quite the right length for the job on the first try. I wound it a little too tightly and the two ends were just short of reaching each other. But they’re so close. I decided to stretch just a little further...whack! One end slipped out of my hand and slammed into my knuckle. Our departure was delayed another fifteen minutes so I could ice my bruised finger.

“I really want to go camping now!” complained Gia.

Off we went.

About an hour later, we steered into the visitor’s center. I informed the gal behind the front desk we needed a campsite.

“Go pick one out. Just check the tags on the site’s post to make sure it’s not already reserved for tonight.”

I paid, and we zigzagged up the hillside’s dirt road.

Rolling into the campground’s road loop, we picked a campsite. A middle-aged couple was in set up in site next to us and they waved a friendly hello as we walked by with armfuls of camping gear.

Gia was a self-proclaimed expert at setting up tents. At Girl Scout camp, they were required to erect the tents themselves. I think she forgot the whole “many hands make like work” motto and quickly found setting up a large tent solo was complicated. We helped her finish, then grabbed a snack.

After a healthy dose of Pringles chips, Gia declared she was ready for a bike ride. Jumping on our bikes, we headed for the trail. We pedaled up and over the steep bridge an onto the other side of the lake where we stopped for a break. Good thing cause I noticed my injured finger ached from gripping the handlebar.

We happened to park ourselves in just the right spot because hopping from one tree to the next was a pileated woodpecker. If you’re not familiar, that’s the Woody the Woodpecker woodpecker. It is surprisingly large; I’d say slighter bigger than a crow. And it cackled like jungle bird. I can just imagine this thing hollowing out a tree, power pole, or the side of log cabin, and every so often pausing to throw back its little red mohawk to erupt into a cackle like the wicked witch of the west. “I’m going to peck irreversible damage into this thing. Ah hahahahahaha!”

I only had my phone camera. The woodpecker is on the trunk. Can you see him? I didn't think so.

She's not a team player.

Our late afternoon-into-early-evening bike ride worked up appetites. We returned to our campsite for a dinner of hot dogs. Blast this extreme heat and dry conditions resulting in a burn ban. No real campfire for us this year, but we lit up our propane stove.

If I had known the smell of propane attracted troops of yellow jackets, I may have opted for takeout pizza. After turning on the fuel, and lighting the burner with a muffled whoomp!, the next sound was buzzzzzzz! First it was just a few of the little suckers hovering over the stove or in front of our faces. They do a little bee dance, reposition themselves, and in their special little insect language call all their friends over. Much of the time cooking was spent swatting at the yellow jackets with the skewers, which sent hot dog juice dripping onto the propane burner with ferocious pops. This had no effect on our unwelcomed guests and they continued arriving in hungry swarms. Thankfully, none of us are allergic, but we ate our dinner in the tent to escape the flying devils.

I know, I know, I know. Food in the tent is a Camping 101 failure. But I would have preferred a bear’s visit over those trauma-inducing bugs! They perched on the screen of the tent with angry eyes. They revved their wings faster and faster while the buzzing became louder. They were ready for an opening when they’d hit the gas pedal and zoom in. Too bad for them.

After they watched us consume our dinner, they got distracted by another family of campers preparing to dine and buzzed off. I realized my finger was throbbing again under the anxiety.

“Good. They’re gone. Let’s eat s’mores now,” Gia proclaimed.

“I like what she said,” Tom said.

I nodded in agreement.

After listening for the shrieks and cries of the unfortunate campers under the current yellow jacket attack, we determined it was safe to fire up the propane stove again. We looked forward to relaxing with a sweet treat.

Tom gathered the items for the s’mores and asked how many I wanted.

“Two is good. But I want my s’mores without the graham crackers or chocolate, please.”

Gia was stumped. “You mean you want a roasted marshmallow?”

“No. I’m going to eat s’mores with you guys. I just happen to prefer mine without the graham crackers or chocolate.”

After an eyeroll, Gia said, “Whatever. That’s just a roasted marshmallow.”

Not wishing to start an argument with an eight year old who clearly knows more than her mother, I let it slide.

Roasting s’mores marshmallows over a propane flame is not the same as roasting them over a real fire. The propane gives food a weird taste. But there was a far more unpleasant reason this marshmallow roasting session was different.

As we stood over the stove, with white puffy things on the end of sticks, we heard an ear splitting cccccrrrrrrrrrrr. Our auditory senses perked up as we listened for the rest of the rrrraaaccckkkkkk! We turned our heads in the direction of the sound in time to see a nearby tree plummet to the ground with a thump! followed by a whoosh! as the draft rustled the dry shrubbery.

Did you notice I said “nearby?” The tree was only about a hundred feet from our campsite. What’s that old saying? If a tree falls in the forest will anyone hear it. Yyyyyyyep! Yep, they certainly will. Falling trees are loud, and they make sure everyone knows it.

After we scooped up our jaws off the ground, I shoved my marshmallow into Tom’s hand and took off.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“To check out the tree.”

“It’s not going anywhere. Come back and cook your own marshmallow.”

“I know but I want to see it. Finish cooking my s’more, please.”

As I walked down the pathway I heard, “You mean your roasted marshmallow!”

Chuckling to myself, I continued walking towards the tree. I came across the couple who was camped next to us. The woman looked alarmed and relieved at the same time.

“There you are! We were worried that tree smashed you in your tent. Judging from the lack of screams, we figured it didn’t.”

I wasn’t sure if I should be thankful the campers nearby were concerned, or worried that they thought about us being squished to death.

“No, no. We’re good,” I said.

They had already located the tree in question and pointed it out. The man mentioned it looked as though it rotted out and gave way. We all noticed a couple other trees leaning a bit too much on their neighbors. Luckily, no campsites were in their direct leaning path. 

Small trees carry BIG sound!

We parted ways as we walked into our campsites.

Gia heard my approaching footsteps on the dirt. “Mom’s back for her roasted marshmallow,” she bellowed.

While eating my specialty s’more, I examined the trees directly around our tent. I noticed one was a little bent.

The sun went down and we turned in for the night. The crickets seemed louder and more populous than usual. My finger throbbed. I couldn’t get the woodpecker’s cackle, the yellow jackets’ battle buzz, or the ear-splitting crack of the tree out of my head. Yeah. That was a great night’s rest. 

Eclipse Hype

My Observations of the Eclipse

Eclipse from Spokane WA at 10:15 am.
(All photos by Jennifer E. Miller)

There was this thing called a total solar eclipse that happened on Monday. Did you hear about it? There was sure a lot of hype over the moon blacking out our sun. To have a solar eclipse happen where you live is a rare occurrence. If its so infrequent, why the frenzy? In fact, I'm surprised people were making such a big deal about it. The quail visit our yard nearly everyday; now that's a spectacle.

Jennifer, are you serious?!

No, no! Of course not. You should know by now I love sarcasm.

When I first heard about the solar eclipse, I mistook it for a lunar eclipse, which happen more frequently. When all these eclipse glasses starting popping up for sale, I didn't understand why they were necessary. I thought they were a toy to enhance the experience. By the time I realized how special a solar eclipse is, and the need for anti-retina-frying goggles, it was a little late in the game as retailers were sold out. I came to terms with my mistake and researched other interactive ways to experience the eclipse.

There were many creative ways to view a solar eclipse with a pinhole method. I got really excited to use my homemade pinhole viewer that took a whopping 47.3 seconds to gather supplies and create. All I needed was a sheet of white paper with a small hole punched out. With my back to the sun, hold up the paper. The sun shines through the hole onto the ground or other surface. When the moon crosses paths with the sun, the bright circle changes into a crescent shape. Use this same idea and enclose a pinhole viewer in a cereal or other small box. But wait! You can lay your fingers over one another in a waffle pattern to create a pinhole effect (which is cool cause it shows several little eclipses all at once). Again, using the same idea, look at the ground through the shadows of a leafy tree. Even a pasta colander with all those little holes. The creative possibilities are endless.

I was very curious about the light and/or darkness. While we weren't in the path of total totality, our area would get around 92% and I wondered how much darkness was coming. What would the light be like? Would it resemble twilight, dusk, or dawn? Would it glow, making long shadows? I also looked forward to feeling the eclipse. Would it be cold? Folks using those stinking glasses wouldn't be able to experience any of those things because, surely, they would only be focusing on the sun's show and not its affect on earth.

I got hyped up over my own hype. At the last minute, a friend said, "Hey, I have an extra pair of eclipse glasses. Do you want them?" I almost said no. I looked forward to a creative experience. But, knowing how hard those suckers were to come by, I took them home. They sat on my counter overnight, twinkling under my kitchen lights. I felt as though I was cheating on my creativity.

Eclipse Day, August 21, 2017, arrived and I sent G off to school. Someone managed to secure eclipse glasses for the students and I was glad she would get to see the sun and the moon competing for alignment. Since I wasn't exactly sure how the school was planning to ensure that all 500+ students kept their anti-retina-frying goggles on their faces, we went over safety precautions again. And again. And again. G was annoyed with my worrying that she finally said, "Can I just take a pinhole view instead?" I sent her with one, but explained that this is really special and she should look at the eclipse through the special glasses...and only the special glasses. (I had to get that one last mom warning before sending her loose through the hallways.)

Back at home T and I had the TV switched on to one of dozens of stations covering the eclipse. Around 9:15 am the eclipse started. The news anchors enthusiastically announced the moon has just taken its first bite out of the sun. On the screen was the orange circle of our sun with a teeny tiny edge covered. I wondered if we could actually see that with the glasses, so outside I went with my eye cover. By golly! We can see it. Until about an hour later, that was about all the excitement. The moon reportedly travels 2,288 miles her hour. When a human is firmly planted on Earth, it sure doesn't seem that fast. So we waited

Near 92% at 10:23 am. Notice the long shadows and "glow" on T's skin. Not typical of a cloudless bright day.

I only have 8% of the sun shining on me!

Taken after school. She is mimicking "Ooooo" because that's what she says she was doing when watching the eclipse. Notice how the light is significantly different that the top photo. Both subjects are facing the sun.

About 10:00 am the moon was positioned enough that the eclipse projections through the pinholes were a true crescent shape. It was like the moon phases, only with the sun. I got some neat photos.

Pinhole viewing method. This was about at peak totality.

Punch a bunch of holes to see multiple eclipses! 10:41 am.

Fast forward about an hour to 10:15 am and things start to get really interesting. Of course we took peeks through the glasses here and there, too, but the vibe was obviously different. The normally scorching sun rays disappeared. Not filtered as though behind clouds, but blocked; similar to a sunset dipping behind the horizon. The temperature suddenly dropped several degrees, giving me goosebumps. The sunlight was noticeably dimmer and less intense.

Our neighbors walked onto their back deck about this time, too. It was fun shouting across the yards to them. "Do you see it?" "It's pretty cool." "T is worried he might be missing out on good fishing."

10:27 am was to be the peak of Spokane's totality (remember 92%). As the moon inched closer, the temperature continued to cool and the sunlight was losing its battle to shine at capacity. The normally bright blue sky turned greyish blue. And everything was quiet. The birds disappeared. Wasps retreated to their nests. There was no rustling of the tree branches; even the slight breeze present was stealth. It felt as though nightfall was on its way. Curiously, even I felt the urge to bundle up, light a campfire, and roast marshmallows (hey that's what someone does outside at night!) I was unexpectedly uncomfortable experiencing twilight at 10:27 am. It was cold, dim, and quiet. Entirely too quiet.

The last bird we saw before 92% totality: a Eurasian Collared Dove. The sky is taking on a deeper tint.

Luckily, totality only lasts a couple minutes and soon the moon floated out of the sun's way. Its retreat was even more interesting that its advance. The crescent shape, which formed on the sun's left side, curved over the top, and ended on the right side. Like the sun was a lazy susan spinning in the sky.

Finally, with the eclipse completed, the all-powerful sun once again spit its warmth and strength onto Spokane. And my adorable little birdies returned for their snacks.

The eclipse was over quickly. While we were not in the path of complete totality, it was interesting how light it stayed, even with less than ten percent of sun's capacity upon us. That goes to show the sheer power of the sun (and the necessity for proper eyewear). I had fun observing this phenomenon and its affects right from home.

Cabin 3

Photo from Pixabay under Creative Commons License

Cabin 3

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

Riding in the car, I felt the curve in the road before the resort entrance. The car blinker ticked, as the tires crunched over the gravel driveway, leaving behind a wispy cloud of dust. I saw row of small structures almost too small to be called houses. I guess that’s why they were called cabins.

Dad steered the car and parked in front of the main office. All three of us, my sister was the third one, climbed out and filed inside. A friendly woman with long greying hair tied in a ponytail and thick bangs greeted us. She checked something off in her registration book and handed Dad the keys. The keychain was an ugly, orange, plastic diamond that surely fit uncomfortably in his jeans pocket. But I suppose not one tenant misplaced it.

While the woman discussed the rules and things to do, my sister and I became antsy. She noticed and suggested we step out the rear door onto the porch. Skipping our way to the door, our sneakers creaked over the wood floors, worn dry by sand and dampness others had trampled in. The screen door had a rusted spring that complained as we pushed it open and stepped outside.

We stared at the glittering surface of water before us. Like floating diamonds, it shimmered in the fierce midday sun. They bobbed up and down, momentarily disappearing, so as not to melt under the rays.

I wanted to kick off my shoes, push my toes into the sand, placing one foot before the other, faster and faster, and run into the cool deep blue water that stood before me. I wanted the minnows to scatter upon my splash and the seaweed to tickle my ankles. I wanted to step over the sharp rocks, or prance across the dock and try to avoid getting a splinter. I longed to watch the sunset—as much as the surrounding mountains would allow.

At night, I could don a sweatshirt and head to the fire pit where the hosts allowed guests to toast s’mores. I preferred my s’mores a certain way: without the graham crackers or chocolate. The smoke and heat of the campfire parched my eyes. Like fireworks, the flames crackled and seared, giving way to sparkling embers floating off into the night sky, to chase stars, the ashes clinging to my clothes. In the morning, the smell of fire and roasted marshmallows lingered.

But I was getting ahead of myself. I still stood on the porch soaking up the lake with its noise of summer enthusiasts on paddleboats or cannon balling off the dock. There was the scrape of a rowboat over the sand, safely off the water. Couples strolled along the beach hand-in-hand, sometimes with a leashed dog.

My sister groaned, and said something about the small snack store on the beach a few dozen yards down. They sold candy and ice cream. I think that’s what the resort and the lake was to her: candy and ice cream. If those diamonds glittering upon the water were edible, I’d spend all weekend plucking them off and into my mouth. They’d surely taste like crystalize sugar.

The rusted spring complained again, and Dad stepped through, announcing he was finished checking in. We skipped back through the office waving at the woman, and climbed back into the car. No need for seatbelts since it was a short jaunt to the cabin. Cabin. The word suddenly sparked a realization.

“Which cabin did we get this time?” I asked with excited anticipation.

“Cabin 3.”

My sister and I cheered and clapped.

Cabin 3 was extra special. It wasn’t the basic long log type that most were. It was narrow, meaning the rooms were such, too. And that meant two twin sized beds couldn’t fit side by side. Cabin 3 was special because it had bunk beds.

The car rolled toward Cabin 3, and my sister and I bickered over who was to get the top bunk. We were told we’d take turns since we were staying two nights here. Next, we argued over who was sleeping on top first.

The car came to a stop. The gear shifted into park and Dad pulled the keys out of the ignition. The noise of the engine, the radio, and crunching over the gravel ceased and an eerie silence lingered because I noticed Dad was quiet, too. Usually he was cheery and jovial upon arrival, but I quickly brushed aside my concern. I was excited to be here.

We opened the car doors as a dust cloud floated by, disappearing as the particles dispersed. Dad popped the trunk and we grabbed our belongings; we didn’t bring much when this place had nature’s splendor to enjoy. Clutching our bags, we headed toward the entrance.

The cabin’s door paint was peeling and a few cobwebs hung in the corners. It was a regular, welcoming site; I liked how things stayed the same here. Dad dug the key out of his pocket and jiggled the lock.

The door swung open and I got a whiff of must and vintage wood paneling. There was a small kitchen and living room, where a textured plaid couch sat next to an old TV with rabbit ears. Between the two rooms was a dark hallway. I darted down it.

The room on one side had a regular sized bed. Across from it was the second room. Running my hand over the smooth wall, I found the light switch and flipped it up. A single bulb illuminated with a small ting, revealing the bunk beds.

I tossed my backpack on the top bed and scrambled up the ladder to claim my stake, much to my little sister’s dismay. Wanting to be first to sleep on top, she pitched a fit. But I wasn’t backing down. She still occasionally wet the bed; and I wasn’t sleeping in a soiled mattress. She just as easily could soil the bottom bunk, but I was not risking my single night on the top to my sister’s bladder. Her fits became tearful and she hollered at not getting her way.

Ignoring her protests, I sat up top, my head inches from the ceiling. Unzipping my bag, I dug out some photos I’d brought along; photos from previous trips to this resort. There was me with my first rainbow trout, sand castles, and even holding a washed up dead sunfish. A handful more revealed new friends we’d made at the lake, rowing a boat, or burying people underneath the sand with only their heads exposed. Over my sister’s cries, I smiled at each one. Each memory flooding through the gates of time.

After flipping through the stack of photos, I placed them next to my pillow. I noticed my sister was still wailing.

I climbed down from the bunk, faced her, and suggested we go to the beach store for candy or ice cream. She said she wanted both. Of course she did. At least the sobbing subsided for now.

Once more, we walked down the dark hallway into the front area where we found Dad opening cupboard doors, examining what supplies lay inside. He stopped and turned toward us.

“She is ready for candy and ice cream,” I told him.

My comment brought a smile to Dad’s face, but it quickly faded.

“This is the last time we will stay here,” he blurted.

Confused, I asked why.

“The resort is being sold to a developer who will tear down the cabins to build condos.”

“What’s a condo?” I asked.

“It’s a building with many places for people to live in,” Dad answered as he mindlessly turned the sink’s faucet on and off.

“You mean apartments?”

“No. fancier than apartments, but similar I suppose. Think of them like a building with a few houses insides.”

“So we will stay in a condo instead of cabins next time?”

“No. The condos are for wealthy people to buy and live in permanently.”

I didn’t like that answer.

“Well, we can come enjoy the beach,” I stated, matter-of-factly.

Dad looked glum.

“We won’t be able to do that either. It will be private property; that’s means keep out.”

I didn’t like that answer. Families enjoyed this resort throughout the summer—and year probably—why restrict use to those few who can afford condos? It didn’t seem right. The natural splendor should be available for all.

My last stay at the resort would at least be in Cabin 3. Somehow, though, the experience was different. The musty smell seemed expired rather than renewing. The ice cream and candy wasn’t as sweet. The paddleboat pedals felt stiffer, the sand rougher, and the diamonds faded. The roasted marshmallows remained delectable and, strangely, one never again tasted as good as they did from that fire pit.

Sadly, I imagined the gravel driveway paved and blocked with an iron gate. Adorned on it would be a sign that read Private Property Keep Out. I pictured the future row of buildings too large to be cabins. They’d be condos. I wonder who would get Condo 3.

I wrote this memoir of a local resort that did indeed change to condo living. It meant yet another public access to the water was stripped away. This practice is all too common in the region. Public use is brushed aside in favor of money and greed. Nature should be for everyone to enjoy and make memories.

The Modern Family

The Modern Family

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

While most families include a mother, father, and a couple kids, there's always that one family who stands out from the rest. The one with a herd of children who makes you think, "Wow! Look at all those kids. They have their wings full."

Wait. What?

I present the modern family. It's a quail flock who have hung around our yard this summer. There's a mom, dad, and seven chicks. Sometimes, they waddle right up to our living room window, where we have a feeder, and cleanup after the finches. Other times they hide under the trees or flowers.

It's usually the same routine when they arrive. Dad stands watch upon a fence post or perched on our roof, keeping a diligent eye out for predators. There's one little chick who insists on being close to dad. After he's eaten, he flies and lands next to dad where they snuggle until the rest of the crew is finished.

When the whole family is ready, they line up on the fence. Dad first, followed by the chicks, and finally mom. Their little feet pump along, as though on a balance beam. If I listen closely, I hear low clucks from the parents, along with soft cheeps from the chicks.

Gah! Enough with descriptions. Here are the photos. Enjoy and I dare you not to coo as you look at them.

They have eaten and are tip-toeing their way over the balance beam.

Examining the area for predators.

Waiting for the cue to follow the leader.

Sibling love!

A few of the chicks wanted to take a dip in the neighbor's pool.

Explaining Patriotism

Explaining Patriotism

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

For the past two weeks, we've had an exchange student, Miko (not her real name) staying with us. She if from Japan, and it's interesting to learn about another culture. What's especially fun is answering her questions about America because it allows me to get a glimpse of what foreigners notice here. 

One of the things Miko pointed out was the amount of American flags she saw. They can be found hanging off houses, towering in front of businesses, even flapping atop vehicles. She asked why we do this because, in Japan, only schools and government/military buildings wave the Japanese flag. Miko was confused when I answered,  "It's because we are patriotic." Then, I tried explaining patriotism. It's harder than you may think. Flag bearing is, evidently, not a universal way to show love towards your country. 

Our student thought flags are for military purposes. That is true, but I described how non-military citizens are proud to be Americans. The American flag is not just for government purposes, it's for everybody because we are a country founded by the people, for the people. We proudly display our country's flag to honor our heritage and show our citizen unity.

The concept of showing the flag would, seemingly, make perfect sense to most Americans. Culturally speaking, it's difficult to translate. It also made me think about appreciating being an American. In countries where it is not widely accepted to display a flag at your home, does it mean that country has more control over its citizens instead of the other way around? As American citizens we do have a lot of control. We vote on many topics and elect many different kinds of positions. As voters we work for our government, in a sense. Our government doesn't just control us. The USA is truly a free country with minimal boundaries. 

Hanging the flag outside my own home shows I am patriotic. It means I'm proud to instill the values that make this homeland the greatest on Earth. Proud to be an American. 

Miko's question also sparked my curiosity regarding what other US citizens think patriotism means. How would you answer her question? I'm interested to know. 

People Watching

People Watching

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

A gym is a place teeming with all sorts of people. There’s gym rats, those trying to lose weight, even some that attend for some form of rehab. Many people simply go to maintain a healthy lifestyle. Which an array of gym-goer types, people watching is an intriguing aspect in this setting.

The Cheerful Instructor

The group fitness classes are held in, what the gym calls, the studio. It’s a separate room, presumably, so that the instructor’s microphone stays isolated to one area. The windows of the studio are right next to the treadmills. The layout is important later in the story.

The class instructor greets newcomers with enthusiasm. He/she explains the class which may include a combination of cardio and weights, followed by core work and mild stretching on a yoga mat. The instructor sugar coats the upcoming workout as a fun-filled hour sure to be the highlight of your day.

Do not be fooled.

In the hour that follows are exercises specifically designed for self-destruction. The instructor delivers the workout in such a way, that the exerciser quickly determines their lungs’ incapacity level. The instructions are gentle at first, then turn to demands of “move faster!” and “jump higher!” followed by an encouraging “you can do it!” Stupidly, the exerciser listens to said encouragement, and ups their personal intensity level only to discover their oxygen levels have completely depleted. I think this is known as exhaustion.

By the time the class reaches the so-called mild stretching section, I wrap myself up, burrito style, in my yoga mat and nap away the remaining torture session.

The cheerful instructor cannot be trusted. Ever.

Extreme Vanity

In reference to the self-destruction class above, let it be known it is a sweat inducer. Not just a few beads clinging to my skin, but rivers of salt water weaving down my body cascading into a pool at my feet. In fact, I have to borrow the bucket and mop from the cleaning person afterwards. As I look around at the other participants, I notice many are, like myself, toweling off, fanning themselves, or gulping down a gallon of water. Then there are the few, namely women, who aren’t sweaty; like at all. I know they’ve been present for the entire hour so what gives?

Looking closer, I notice these women also have thick application of makeup, complete with eyelash extensions which remains flawless. Not only that, their hair is perfectly coiffed and shimmery as though they just stepped off the salon chair and were sprinkled with pixie dust. I, on the other hand, am a panting bulldog who finally emerged from the Sahara Desert. How are these women able to maintain their vanity in a physically demanding environment?

Even after several weeks, I find this baffling. During one class, I lessen my self-destruction intensity level, due to an injury flair up. This allows me to focus on the participants in question and zero-in on what the heck was going on here. I finally figure it out: vanity over effort. Women sacrifice effort in order to look like a fashion magazine model. Personally, I don’t see the health benefit of moving around if you aren’t going to suffer like the rest of us. Here’s a hint to finding a better balance: doll yourself up after you actually work out.

To each their own, but vanity maintenance is not something I strive for at the gym. My hair is pulled back, no makeup, and I’m lucky if I showered within the last fifty hours. Usually my clothes match. At least I have that going for me.

Lacking Self Awareness

On the contrary, there’s the gym-goer who lacks self-awareness. The exerciser in question wears traditional grey sweatpants with a drawstring waist and elastic cuffs, and a long-sleeve compression shirt. On his head is a do-rag. Over his hands are what appear to be weightlifting gloves. All this sounds fairly normal, eh? Now add a black Starcraft t-shirt over the compression shirt and hiking shoes rather than tennis shoes. To complete the ensemble, the do-rag has a bright blue penguin cartoon character on it.

I study the person of interest as he approaches the treadmill. (As you recall from the intro, the treadmills are located next to the studio windows, directly in my view.) Stepping onto it, he stretches overhead and to the side; stuff most people do. Next, he turns his body ninety degrees, away from the window, spread his feet in a straddle position, and folds in half. This would be a normal stretch, except the man with no self-awareness pushes his buttocks against the studio glass. It flattens like a pancake. That’s when I notice the biggest faux pas of all. Strapped to the back of his waistband is a DiscMan with modern earbuds plugged into it. Not only that, he has a special DiscMan-compatible pouch to keep it in. Whoever has a working DiscMan from the 90s please stand up, I thought to myself.

After a few bounces in the straddle stretch, self-unaware man stands up to begin his run. I now feel sorry for the cleaning person because there is a splotch of butt sweat left behind on the window. 

Lost for words, I laugh. I pointed out this eclectic gym-goer to a friend, who exclaims, “Wow! He just popped out of a time machine!” That sums up my observation, except I couldn’t pinpoint which era he had been ejected from. A part of me was dying to know what he was listening to on that DiscMan so I could narrow it down. Maybe his music choice was as bad as his fashion sense and the time machine refused to transport him back.

People watching is a sure-fire way to be entertained. Whether it’s observing over-enthusiasm, modeling sensations, time travelers, or anything else, it's guaranteed in virtually any public setting. 

Forever Goodbyes To Daisy

Photo by Jennifer E. Miller Dec 2016

Forever Goodbyes To Daisy

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

Certainly, something I would choose to avoid in life are forever goodbyes. This year seems to be riddled in grief. Uncle Art in March, Grandma in May, and now our little Daisy. I'm beyond heartbroken to lose my furry kindred spirit.

Daisy came to us in April 2002. We lived in Moscow with our first cat, Pumper. T's sister, who studied at WSU's Veterinary Program, informed us of a five month old kitten with a busted leg who needed a home with TLC. The staff didn't exactly know what happened to Daisy, but it was suspected she was hit by a car. A good samaritan brought her to WSU. With her front leg shattered, and no owner to pay for medical costs, the school was originally going to put her down. A staff members swayed the powers-that-be, and use the prospective surgeries as a teaching experience for students. Daisy ended up with several reconstructive surgeries, and had a skeletal fixator attached to her leg. This means there were four pins sticking out of her leg bone and were held in place by the skeletal fixator which ran parallel to her leg, but perpendicular to the pins. The fixator was a plastic tube with cement inside; hence how it stuck to the pins.

A limping, yet adorable, black and white kitten greeted us as T and I entered the room. I picked her up and she snuggled in my arms for forty-five minutes. She had a thunderous purr and periodically, she would turn to look at me and nuzzle my chin. Good grief! How could I say no?! Daisy had already chosen me. There was a few days wait for WSU to run a few more tests to ensure Daisy was fit to go home with us. We had to sign papers promising to bring her back at the appropriated dates for check ups and, ultimately, pin removal.

I was excited to bring her home, although I can't say the same for Pumper, our other cat. Learning to tolerate one another took patience. Eventually they came to terms when they realized neither was going anywhere.

Daisy like to hide. Or try to hide, I should say. She would walk behind the TV stand but her fixator would scrape against the wall and give away her position. Until that thing was removed, her attempts at being stealthy were thwarted.

We moved from the apartment to a house the following year, and adopted our dog, Boonie. Daisy and Boonie became instant buddies. When Boonie would lay down on the floor, Daisy would strut over, announced by her loud purr, and nuzzle his muzzle. Being a good dog, Boonie took her snuggles without shame.

Daisy never fared well in vehicles. When T and I moved back to Spokane, Daisy puked on the car ride up. I stopped at a gas station in Rockford WA to grab napkins and clean up the mess.

A funny quirk about Daisy was that she only liked to sit on our laps when we wore denim. If I wore fleece lounge pants, per se, she would sit next to me on the couch with a grouchy look. "You are wearing fuzzy pants instead of jeans. My day is ruined." At least, judging by her glare, that's what I imagined she was thinking.

Sporting her denim craze. Photo by Jennifer E. Miller

Daisy enjoyed a variety of "human" things. She pawed at our plates for a chuck of our chicken, turkey, or fish. With her pitiful green eyes, it was hard not to let a piece "accidentally" drop in front of her. At Christmas she liked resting on the plush tree skirt. She also relished bird watching. Those quail were her favorite; as they are mine.

As our final pet, she live through Pumper's passing, then Boonie, and even the betta, Blueberry Jewel. I think a piece of her heart was left empty after losing each one; just like ours were. Although being the queen of the household was nonetheless enjoyable, she missed their company.

It's never easy to watch our pets begin to do downhill. Daisy's suffered from kidney failure for a couple years. I started feeding her specialized kidney diet food, then added medication, followed by fluid administration every few days. Despite her weight loss, which is a common feline kidney complications, she was doing pretty well. I thought she had at least a couple months left. Over the weekend, she struggled to walk, hold her head up, or find her litter box. I could feel the end was nearing.

Like a freight train barreling down the rails, its echo bouncing off the terrain, it's sometimes impossible to tell how close the locomotive is until its whistles blows right in front of you. That's what watching animals get older is like. You know death is coming, but exactly when is an agonizing torturous guessing game. When pets are too weak to continue on their track, the owner must make the difficult decision to say the ultimate goodbye.

Bawling my eyes out, I held her in my arms and told her I loved her. And all too soon, she was gone.

I'd like to believe Daisy is up there, where ever pets go, chasing Pumper and nuzzling Boonie. Meanwhile, admittedly, I shed tears everyday over her. There's no longer a fuzzball sleeping on my chest at night. Or a snuggle bug on my lap protesting my fabric choice. No loud purr in my ear or whiskers tickling my nose. One less mouth to feed isn't unburdening; it's an empty feeling.

Someday, I'm sure, I'll be with her again. For now the heartache is raw and deep. All of us are sure gonna miss little Daisy.

Garden Friends

Garden Friends

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

In my front yard is a lavender shrub. It's purple, of course, and fragrant, and attracts various animals.  If I'm lucky, I'll see a hummingbird in the evening as it hovers over the plant and sips nectar with its straw-like beak. I like watching the honey bees buzz and zip from bloom to bloom, busily working away. They generally don't bother me even when I'm up close to get a better look. The other day, however, I noticed some garden bugs that usually aren't there.

Grasshoppers perched on the lavender's stems. There were four in all. Two were bright green and two were striped. Of course, grasshoppers are not an unusual insect to see in summertime, but I don't see them hanging out on my lavender plant. I wondered if there was a nest underneath. (Do grasshoppers even live in nests?) Fetching my camera from inside I snapped away, practicing my photography skills. 

In the photo at the top, Mr. Grasshopper is moving his antennae as though he is feeling the soft flower petals. It also appears he is giving the bloom a hug. I wasn't exactly sure what any of the grasshoppers were doing on the plant, but maybe they find places to kick back and relax, too. Below is another angle. I used a wide aperture so that is why his hind legs look out of focus.

As I finished the photo shoot, I noticed a bee I'd never seen before. Taking a closer look, I noticed it may not be a bee at all. It looked like a bee meets mosquito meets moth. Possibly even meets hummingbird with that long "snout" to suck nectar. Do you know what it is? I observed it for a long time, intrigued. There were no other insects like it near by; it operated solo. 

It's easy to get caught up in the hubbub of summer enjoying the sunshine and lazy days. Remember to appreciate all of earth's interesting creatures by giving them a few minutes of attention. 

Shake Rattle and Roll

Photo by Jennifer E. Miller

Earthquake Excitement

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

There was a little excitement Wednesday night. Not exactly good excitement. Spokane had an earthquake.

Oh my gosh! That's so cool!

No, no it's not! I got the crap scared outta me.

About 11:30 pm Wednesday, July 5, 2017, I switched of my bedside lamp and snuggled under the covers. (T was working.) Usually, the cat makes her way up on the bed after a few minutes and I was anticipating her arrival. I felt something at my feet, which I assumed was my four legged fur baby. Then it felt bigger and stronger. Did kitty fall down? She is geriatric, after all. I called her name only to have the bed roll and shake vigorously. Okay, even young felines aren't capable of this kind of force. I sat up and look around. There was nothing.

My bed glided forward and back, rocking, rolling, and shaking. Remember when hotel beds had vibrating massage, and you inserted a coin in the metal box, and instead of relaxation it felt like a rickety roller coaster? The corners bounced unevenly and the apparatus grumbled and your neighbor would shout "Shut that damn thing off! I'm tryin' to sleep!"

Yes, of course I remember those.

That's pretty much what I was feeling. Except, perhaps, I was the one shouting, "How do I shut whatever-the-heck-this-is off?"

Next, the blinds rattled. My windows are not flush with the wall, but rather are three-inches recessed, making a little a cubby where the blinds sit. Except, tonight they were dancing in their cubby banging against the sides, rattling, as though a gust blew through the open window. The problem: my window was closed tight.

I admit, the rattling blinds rattled me. I immediately thought ghost. G hadn't woken up; was this isolated to just my room? What apparition had I pissed off? And how exactly did I anger it?

After what I estimated to be about twenty seconds, the rock n roll wave stopped as suddenly as it started. At that moment, it dawned on me that all the ruckus may have been an earthquake. I quickly called Todd.

After quickly describing what just happened I said, "I think we may have had an earthquake."

I heard him roll his eyes on the other end of the phone. "We don't have earthquakes here." There was a short pause and with concern he said, "Oh no! Someone probably hit the house with their car!"

Before I could say, "No, that didn't happen. There would've been a single jolt and a bang of seismic proportions," I heard his tires skid, engine rev, and figured he was already on his way.

He arrived home to investigate the damage from the imaginary car versus house accident. What do ya know; he found nothing.

To make me feel better, he checked the house inside and out. There was no evidence of any ghost so I decided it must've been an earthquake. I've never experienced one, but common sense told me I had a rock solid case. T was still skeptical.

"You really didn't feel any tremors?" I asked him.

"No, I did not feel the earth move under my feet. But if an earthquake really did happen, I was on the opposite end of town and driving. Perhaps I wasn't in the correct place to feel the pulse."

He couldn't provide a reason to what cause the earth-shattering movement I encountered. We said our good-byes and he was back to patrol. A few minutes after he left, T called stating that the PD just got word of a 5.8 magnitude quake out of Lincoln MT.

HA HA HA!

I was right after all!

Now, mind you, earthquakes are uncommon in this region. Therefore, 5.8 is pretty darned big. (Obviously, it wasn't that strong by the time the tremors reached Spokane.) It raises the question of why? I've heard it's a fluke thing. I've heard it's from the fracking in North Dakota. I've heard it's a precursor to a Yellowstone mega volcanic eruption, which experts quickly revert back to the fluke theory. Which leaves me without an answer. The Inland NW is no San Andreas, so whose fault is this?

Gee, I'm not sure.

Me, neither. But I'm sure not going to twist and shout for another episode of shake, rattle, and rolling!

Stairway to Heaven: A Tribute to Grandma

Photo by Jennifer E. Miller 2017

Stairway to Heaven: A Tribute to Grandma

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

Time flies like a magic carpet. As though in a dream, it glides through the sky until it's yanked out from underneath; and the rider falls to their end. Grim, but true; life is short. At least that's what all the elderly people say. Grandma's magic carpet was yank away on May 22, 2017.

At nearly 94 years old, she lived through milestones of events, like anyone else: weddings, funerals, babies, grandbabies, great-grandbabies. A world war, nuclear threats, cable TV, and Nintendo (and you'd best believe Grandma knew what that was. Perhaps even engaged with it.) She lost her husband, and persevered on with life--I mean her magic carpet ride. The funny thing is, as all these countless events unfolded, time was slipping away. A new grandbaby is wonderful news, but also a sign of life edging closer to its expiration. Of course, we don't necessarily see it that way at the time; we simply enjoy the gifts granted to us.

The day Grandma left us was a beautiful day. I told her the sky was bright blue and the sun warmed the air to a temperature above my preference. The songbirds chirped insistently and the quail plotted, once again, to snatch strawberries from my garden. And speaking of gardens, the potato plants began sprouting, and I am looking forward to green beans again this year. Do you remember, Grandma, those summers spent on your patio snapping green beans? My irises were blooming yellow, violet, mauve, red, and white. (Ironic. When these flowers bloom, it's my reminder to clip them and head to the cemetery where I placed them on other ancestors' graves.) I held Grandma's hand and mindlessly chattered about all these things. I could've chosen any other topic, but I chose the simple things that God created for us. The things she showed me how to enjoy in life; to enrich my own magic carpet ride. 

That afternoon, I let go of her warm hand, left her side, and soon she was gone.

Strangely, I believe I was aware when it happened. I arrived home, my mind drained, and I lay down in bed to take a nap. At some point I woke to my cat tapping my mouth with her paw. She doesn't do that to me. In a moment my phone rang with the news. More irony: I was asleep in my own bed, when Grandma left Earth from hers. Call it whatever you want. Call me a loony skeptic fit to be a guest on those freakish early morning radio shows about ghosts and aliens. Things happen for a reason. There are no coincidences in life. Later, I realized I forgot to include Grandma's birthday when I made the 2017 calendars. Was this a subconscious knowledge she wouldn't make it until then? Or a "coincidence?" Perhaps delayed intuition is a good term.

Grieving is different for everyone. The following day, my family went to the lake. Fresh air is good for you; Grandma knew that, too. She walked her yard and noticed things like a newly sprouted plant or bird's nest. I find myself like her in this aspect. When it was time to leave the lake, I gazed up at the sky and noticed an odd streaky cloud. It appeared to ascend from a hilltop and stretch itself upward. It looked like a stairway in the sky. A stairway to Heaven. I snapped a photo with my cellular phone and as I looked at the screen to make sure I got the image, I noticed something else. At the top of the "stairway" was a face. A second later, the clouds had floated on, erasing their previous formation. 

The face was Grandma's, of course. She checked on us one last time before stepping through into the next life. Perhaps her magic carpet transformed into that stairway to Heaven. Maybe even lining the steps for her. The departed don't get red carpet treatment on their way to Heaven; they receive magic carpet treatment.

We will all take over your magic carpet from here.

Love you forever, Grandma.