Thanks, Dad

My dad and I live about twelve hundred miles apart, so I didn't get to see him on Father's Day, but it seemed like he was close by. Some friends were visiting from out of town, and we spent the day visiting Snoqualmie Falls, hiking up the Twin Falls trail, and having a picnic -- exactly the kind of day my dad puts together for friends from near and far. I can't begin to add up all the days I've spent in Dad's roadworn four-wheel-drive vehicles, on back roads or dirt tracks that barely qualify as roads, seeing "critters and country", in his phrase.

He worked as a surveyor, and always had a little-known beautiful spot to head out to on the weekends, battered red cooler and picnic blanket in the back. We'd find somewhere in a meadow or by a river, build a fire from dead wood, roast some hot dogs, and explore. It was usually my job to gather kindling for the campfire, and I remember thinking how even chores were fun in the woods -- I still feel that way. One morning on the way up to the mountains, my dad stopped the car and told me and my stepmom he had to "get out and wee." He got out, closed the door, yelled, "Wheeeeee!" and then got back in and continued down the road.

A few years ago, I met some friends in Salt Lake City so we could visit Robert Smithson's Spiral Jetty, which had become visible as the water level dropped in the Great Salt Lake. This was pre-Google-maps, the directions and dirt roads were both sketchy, and our view was wandering livestock, rusting machinery, and the cloud of dust we were raising. As our rental car juddered over the washboard surface, one of them looked at me and said, "Doesn't it feel weird to be out here? What if the car breaks down? You seem pretty comfortable, actually." I was totally comfortable; it was like a hundred other Saturdays I'd spent with my dad and various friends and family he'd gathered. I realized it was because of my dad that I felt safe out in the world away from buildings and phones and pavement. There's a lot of talk lately about how children in our culture are disconnected from nature. The biggest influences over whether a child spends time outdoors are parents, the first people to help you figure out what's safe and what isn't, where you belong and don't belong. My dad made the big wild world my playground and taught me its rules.

When I was eight or nine, my dad took me up a forest road to the top of a peak, showing me the different fossils scattered there, and explaining how they had once been under an ocean that was long gone, and how the earth had raised and folded up into mountains in the spot we were standing. I remember the feeling of stretching my mind to understand how wide and deep that ocean must have been as we looked across to the surrounding peaks and over the tree-covered valleys between them. Many years after that, when I was working at an engineering company and doing some surveying, I could somewhat understand my dad's daily world. One day he took me out to a piece of land that was about to be gifted as wilderness, and we found the section corner from when the land was surveyed a hundred years earlier. It was a pyramidal stone, scored on each side; there was also a small pit of charcoal. And I remember the same feeling of trying to stretch my mind, back to the person that had walked that land and measured it with chains, burying charcoal and hewing a stone to mark it. My dad's career spanned the time when surveying went from slide rules to GPS and computers; I spent a week working with him and his crew shortly before he retired, and learned more in that week than the previous six months at my job.

Maybe the best thing I can say about my dad is that he's my friend. If we'd met at work or on a trail, I'd think he was a pretty cool guy. He's shown me how to build a campfire, set up a surveyor's tripod, and make an awesome salad. He's taught me, not by words but by how he lives his life, how to truly love the land and water, how to toughen up when I need to, and how to be generous and hospitable. He's made my world bigger. Thanks, Dad. Happy Father's Day.

Favorite Birthday Card Ever

One of my coworkers decided my departmental birthday card was too cutie-pie for me, so he upgraded it with a fly rod. I love how the sweet little bluebird bearing birthday greetings is being totally ignored in favor of the fish on the line. Pretty decent bend in the rod...

Happy Mother's Day

“Have fun, honey! Don’t get dirty!” I knew plenty of little girls whose moms sent them outside to play with those parting words, and I was luckily not one of them. Once I changed into official play clothes, all bets were off. I could come home covered in oxide-red dirt, pockets full of rocks or anything else I found, and get a warm motherly welcome. Early days, “helping” my dad dig in the garden and climbing the cottonwood tree in the front yard were adventure enough. Then came a bike, and my radius increased. Then I was old enough to walk to school on my own, and the afternoon walk home took longer and longer as I found more detours through arroyos and open spaces. I came home with all kinds of grimy detritus, bugs, wilted wildflowers, and once a hand stuck full of cactus spines.

My mom let me explore on my own terms, appreciated the treasures I brought home, and generally let me have the run of the neighborhood. She taught me the usual things about staying safe, but she never made me fearful. In short, she gave me the freedom that most boys had. I remember one summer when she imposed a moratorium on shorts because my skinned knees kept getting re-skinned – I generally looked everywhere except where I was going. At the time, this seemed incredibly strict. However, a couple of years ago a bramble of blackberries saved me from a swim in the Green River when I was looking more at a bird than where my bike was pointed. In retrospect, I think Mom made the right call about shorts that summer.

My stepmom, who quickly became “Ma,” met my dad when I was sixteen. As a mother of four kids older than me, former Navy nurse, hospital nurse, then school nurse, she had seen pretty much everything. She wasn’t cynical; quite the reverse, but she was unflappable and always knew what to do. Strained back on a camping trip, sprained ankle on a trail run, allergy attack on a bike ride, bumped head, blistered sunburn – Ma was the person who could help. Teenage dramas, school, friends, boyfriends, first years of college – she saw me through all of it. She had taken her kids camping and fishing and was comfortable in the woods, which made me feel comfortable anytime she was there. She carried humor and calm with her in all situations, and helped me develop a sense of perspective. She also taught me something I always suspected as a little girl: wearing a nylon slip under a summer cotton dress is ridiculous. “People already know I have legs," she said, "it's too darn hot to wear a slip!"

I sprained my ankle last spring on the last day of a fishing trip; the night before heading home was spent with my dad and stepmom. I’ve sprained enough things over the years that I know pretty much what to do, but it felt great to have Ma take a look at it and give me some advice and TLC.

I’m fortunate in many ways, not least in feeling that the world around me is a good place, wide and welcoming, and that exploring it often requires one to come home a bit grubby. I’m fortunate to have been raised by these two wonderful women whose words and lessons to me complemented each other so well. And I'm deeply grateful that as the years have passed, we’ve become true friends. Mom and Ma, thanks, and Happy Mother’s Day.