Trenchwork

I’ve been listening for laughter the past few days. I suspect it’s partly because I’m swamped and have little time for anything outside work at the moment, but it’s also simply because I truly enjoy hearing people laugh; I like knowing they’re having at least that moment of warmth and joy. Good laughter.

There’s a colleague down the hall whose laugh is as musical as round-voiced wind chimes, and you can’t help but be drawn toward it. A gal in my knitting group has a laugh that comes from the belly and startles the unsuspecting and more timid around her, and which may not be stereotypically feminine but is wonderfully human. DH has a laugh that always catches my attention, an unpretentious and unplanned bark that rolls into a round, baritone, nearly sensual roll of life, warmth, and genuine amusement.

I fear we don’t laugh as often as we should . . . and I suspect we aren’t as good as finding things to laugh about as we should.

Like this. Click for bigger, but the interesting bit is the For Sale sign in the middle of the photo. Seriously, there are 4.7 (I think) acres up for sale there, and not for the life of me can I figure out why. You know the deep South joke about having some swamp to sell? I’m convinced this is the desert equivalent.

The trip west was a joy. I’d never had the chance to see much of it; airports, USAF bases, and conference centers simply don’t count. And no, mountains are not all alike.

There are lovely scenic views.

And there are stunning panoramas, such as the one you find from the top of Pike’s Peak in Colorado. At 14,110 feet, you feel the thinness of the air, and having the temperature drop at least ten degrees is a bit startling. It’s impossible to judge distance . . .

The depth and distance tricks the eye. You find yourself looking out, then beginning again from close up in order to try and make sense of what you’re seeing. Not until you put something (or someone) recognizable in the frame . . .

can you put things into scale. Between the low clouds and the high mountain, you felt as if you could simply reach up and touch the sky.

We met a biker from San Antonio who had made a long journey of his own, and as the three of us stood there looking out over the mountain heights and valley depths, DH laughed and said that in Florida, there are hills (Tallahassee is, after all, built on seven hills), but there are so many trees that you go around the corner and all you see is another tree. He’s right—live oaks, pines, and magnolias dominate my home turf—and being able to stand in a place and see for miles, or to the horizon, tends to make one feel naked and very very exposed.

Going from mountain to desert is a change—particularly when you’re accustomed to seeing trees. Florida has red clay hills, but this . . .

This is definitely not like anything you’ll find in north Florida. It’s impossible to see the scale and distance here, but please click that photo for a larger one. In the lower left quarter, you’ll find a note centered over the head and shoulders of someone standing on the path. Now do you get the idea?

That is the first stop in Arches National Park in Utah. Massive walls of red . . .

with odd holes crafted by wind, water, and time. Long sculpted cliffs that look rather as if someone poured a thick bread dough over a counter top of random shapes . . .

. . . and which provide fascinating keyhole spaces to look out onto the rest of a red, red world . . .

Yet, between those desert spaces, there are wonderful little green spots. Spots of wild grasses, sage, and flowers that thrive in spite of the drought.

There are chubby marmots who aren’t much intimidated by passing cars . . .

and inquisitive little fellows who turn into kamikaze pilots in their mad dashes across the road in front of you, but who don’t mind taking a moment from their frantic scramble to sit on a nearby boulder and consider what in the world you’re doing before their nerve fails them and they dash out of sight again.

All the traveling has cemented one thing for me: Spindles travel in PVC pipe. I don’t bother with dressing it up, but it absolutely does the trick for protecting fragile spinning bits.

In this case, it’s a lovely stone spindle from Running Moon Farm, and some Merino-Tencel blend from Spunky Eclectic in the Aspen colorway, gifted to me by Margaret who decided it just didn’t speak to her. It definitely speaks to me, however, so her thoughtfulness is gratefully appreciated. (And you do need to check out her blog; she’s back, and she’s done a major plunge.)

But now I’m afraid I need to go back to lesson plans and student papers. The next two weeks are full of teaching, commenting, and serving as examiner for oral exams. One set of lesson plans left to go before Monday.

Next update: hopefully next weekend, 28 September.