Hands

Melba’s hands show the years she’s lived. And the way she’s lived. She asked to see my palms and we compared lines and knobs. Hers are impressive—evidence of living and loving. Her knobbed knuckles once tied knots to wrangle sheep. Now they hold Mario’s hands securely as she two-steps her 90-year-old sweetheart around the house—in a slow shuffle. She has bumps and deep, but soft divots that rip colored wool into strips then over and under and over, as she braids beautiful rugs made from old coats. I watch her pick up one of her crocks and she ran her skinny finger around the rim. She mentions that she stored butter in one similar to it. I wonder if it is the exact one that spent the summer on Cedar Mountain with her—then came full circle—back to squat on her big braded rug in the kitchen.

Inflate

Tiffany stayed at home this weekend. She said she needed to inflate with her family. I love that word. It's perfectly said. Tiff inflated by taking pictures of her family in the fallen leaves in her backyard. She lives in the mountains where leaves leave their rack earlier than they do in our valley. My leaves are still green with flecks of yellow. We still sit on the deck wearing a sweatshirt. The red glow of the heater drips down on us as we watch the World Series with a bucket of peanuts and a beverage. It's different for Tiff. Things are a little complicated right now and the strength of her family is built up by sitting in a pile of leaves that haven't gone musty quite yet. How wonderful is that simple reality.

Pennies

Most people I know don’t spend time worrying about how many pennies they have – I mean the small change kind. Pennies on a bank statement mean something because they are part of something bigger, like a balance. But small change pennies lay around lonely in cup holders, wishing they could put their Lincoln heads together and be something bigger; something bigger than a gob of coppers taking space in coat pockets or a couple of cents in loafers. Pennies are an afterthought; the seven percent we forget to calculate at the register. They are weight waiting to fulfill their destiny. To be rounded up; stacked up against silver. For other things it takes a gathering of thousands to make significant change, but think about this: what single thing can instantly make someone’s day significant? A penny. Save yours, but every now and then, toss one out in the parking lot to be found.

Rose Colored Skies

The sunsets in our valley are vivid and biblical as the sun slips down behind the Oquirrh Mountains. Clouds billow in summer anvil shapes, and streaks the color of citrus fruit sneak through to light up the wheat fields at the mountain’s feet. On calm days in the late summer, the sunset pallet is mirrored off the Great Salt Lake and splash watercolors of red across the valley to the eastern range. Or when a hot South wind rides in at dusk the sun says good night as a ball of blaze. This month’s fire scattered tragedy into the rose-colored canyon and blasted a spray of machine gun fire into town. For those watching across the valley, you couldn’t tell the difference between the fire dance of red ribbon wriggling its way up the ridge or the sun slinking its way down to bed.

Libraries

I’ve fallen out of love with libraries because of the glittery distraction of strip mall book stores, but recently, I’ve recommitted to strengthen my relationship with free books. The Malad, Idaho public library is a one-story building that from the outside has the personality of a squash, but when you step inside, the thousands of characters living on the shelves in their hardbound shells are a sonata of stories. It’s mostly a children’s library with book bags and bean bags and miniature sofa sectionals. There’s a table with red Naugahyde straight-back benches on either side and a stuffed toy of Chicken Little sits on top of the picture book shelf. The paperback chapter books stand on tall carousals and it is obvious that they have all been read: The Boxcar Children #102 in the series, the Black Stallion’s Filly and a collection of Paul Zindel novels. But the one that really reminds me that libraries tie us to the community around us as well as worlds beyond us is the torn cover and splayed pages of Charlotte’s Web.