I personally know people who claim to like mustard and honey sandwiches, or Brussels sprouts, or country music, but I don’t know a single person who likes dirty snowbanks.
Let’s face it: in snow country, there are some parts of the journey towards spring that are just butt ugly.
But if you look just beyond the gray and grit, it’s delightful to watch winter soften around the edges.
People start peeling off the layers under pressure from a warming sun on their late afternoon walks, and the dust hasn’t yet started to kick up every time a truck rumbles by.
That not-yet-spring-but-thinking-about-it season gives you double the sky coverage, if you remember to look at the puddles and not the ick.
The willows vibrate yellow against the desaturated landscape, and all around you can hear the snow melting off the roof tops and the robins scolding everything.
The piles left behind by the plow are transformed into sculpted inukshuks.
I’ve always wanted to use “inukshuk” in a sentence but never had the chance before.
Inukshuk. Inukshuk. Inukshuk.
There… I’ve said it.
Patience is in the air. Buds are biding their time, but if you put your ear really close, you can hear their little biological clocks ticking.
Hints of green are starting to appear in the corners, and everything, and everyone, knows the time for new development, personal growth, and expansion is near.
Alfred Lord Tennyson had it right: “In spring, a young man’s fancy turns to thoughts of love.”
And the thoughts of middle-aged men?
They turn to “Waddya think of adding another porch on the west side of the house?”
You know how sometimes you’re minding your own business, whacking away at tree limbs, when all of a sudden a deranged woman will come whistling around the corner of the farmhouse yelling, “Quick!! Come and check this out!!”?
And the lighting on the mountains that surround your property on three sides are lit up by the earliest rays of sunset in a way that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up?
And you stand with your mouth hanging open as you watch God start finger-painting in the sky right on top of your head?
And everywhere you look, it just gets more colorful and wild, and you don’t know which direction to watch because everything is so spectacular and is changing so quickly you feel like if you blink, you’re going to miss a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity?
And then it gets SO amazing you get a little nervous, like Dorothy and Toto are about to come whipping down from the clouds and land in a cranky heap beside the old propane tank at the back of the garage?
But then, all of a sudden the color changes from intense yellow to peach to pink so quickly that you think this must be what clouds do when they dress up as northern lights?
And everyone is running around the property hollering “Hey, look at it from HERE!”?
And then you just get overwhelmed and have to sit down on the north porch and settle in to enjoy the end of the show?
And you don’t know whether to pray or weep or laugh out loud, so you just keep taking photos?
Yah… that. Can’t wait to see what comes through the skylights this year.
At least I put my outdoor woolies on first this time.
Yes, this is the same old building on our neighbor’s property we posted a different photo of in our last posting. But around here, life and art is always full of new possibilities: new light, new snow, new angles of perspective.
So this day, I went inside.
Nothing much on the floor except petrified horse poop and old boards. But if you’ve ever, um, enjoyed a Mission Impossible movie, you’ll know that when you enter a room, you must always look up.
Unbelievable. Another fabulous “soft rime web,” this time spotlighted through the missing roof boards.
It was a classic: a natural, brilliant crystalline objet d’art.
In the deep quiet, I was the sole witness to an exquisite, perfect, and fleeting memorial to a long-since deceased master weaver. It lasted for the time it took the sun to move one inch on a spider web.
The moment passed, and all that was left was a couple of breathlessly captured photos and the feeling of having been incredibly blessed.
But this place wasn’t done with me yet.
Getting a little chilly now, but dang! The steaming headwaters of the Teton River waited just over the fence.
When the Upper Snake and Grand Teton mountain ranges call from the distance, what’s a girl to do?
Pristine, jaw-dropping beauty demands a shutter response everywhere you look.
Hey, what’s that? Green stuff growing in the ice cold water? What the heck is that, anyway? Just one more shot… Get closer…
Who gets to stare at individual snowflakes reflected in gently running water?
Me. Overwhelmed, humbled, grateful me.
I couldn’t take any more splendor. Time to get back home.
But not before I was arrested by snow flowers…
… and summoned by sugar-frosted prickles. Boy, some girls sure clean up nice…
I was clearly over my head.
Normally, I hate these suckers. They will relentlessly and obnoxiously “stick” themselves in your running shoe laces so tightly you have to cut yourself out. So when I found myself on my knees in three-feet of snow having shot fifteen portrait-worthy photos of them, I was clearly going the way of Dorothy in the field of poppies. I was dangerously close to laying down and (snow) drifting off…
Fortunately, I was hungry for breakfast and had to pee, so I shuttered my eyes and came back inside.
Then grab your camera, and start out on your belly on your living room floor with the door to the side deck open, and marvel over “Old Lilac Tree, Revisited.”
Gasp.
Run outside in your slippers and sweatshirt. Open your eyes. And start shooting.
Realize you are now standing on top of the snow plow pile in your slippers and sweatshirt. No gloves. No hat.
You can no longer feel the fingers in your left hand.
RUN!! Back into the house. Get real boots, hat, and Michelin-man fleecy on. RUN! Back out to shoot on the other side of the snow pile.
Still no gloves.
Understand there is more to life than gloves. And feeling in your fingers.
Gasp again.
Almost pass out from holding your breath. Thank God for beauty and your D90.
There I was, minding my own Fourth of July parade business, snapping photos of monster trucks and juggling pirates on the village insurance guy’s float when I saw him.
He couldn’t wait to see what was coming next, but as a law abiding citizen, he wouldn’t step out into traffic to see, preferring to keep his feet planted and lean into it instead.
That’s why I zeroed in on his feet… and those shoes.
In case the significance of this fashion statement might elude you, let’s review a little basic parenting math, okay?
1). By law, you must feed your children.
2). When children are fed, they grow.
3). Children’s feet grow faster than any other part of their body.
This means that this little guy didn’t save these puppies to wear, year after year, in the American celebration of Independence Day. These were, most likely, the shoes he wore last week to Billy’s house and will wear three weeks from now to Gramma’s, except maybe he’ll put socks on.
They’re just his shoes, as in “… Jared, we’re going to be late for church, AGAIN! WHERE ARE YOUR DANG SHOES??!”
Jared’s shoes: red, white and blue, spangled with stars and covered in post-modern stripes.
Now, I’m not from around here, so no doubt you know better, but this strikes me as an astoundingly patriotic fashion choice.
I took a second look around the crowd.
The children of Idaho demonstrate the most remarkable “haute couture de Americana” fashion sense of any ankle-biters I have seen across This Great Nation. These little goobers were the most profound proof I’ve seen yet that I have chosen to live in a land of the Free and a home of the Brave.
Plus, they can make a hat brim out of darned near anything.
Not that they all sling ’em low and/or locked. Any jaunty angle, if worn with confidence, will do.
Wouldn’t you love to share the paint station in kindergarten with this little charmer? I’ll bet she can and wouldflick paint at the class nose-picker without a moment’s hesitation.
She looks like the pint-sized Idaho version of my mom.
I loved her. I loved her saucy sweet face, the flags (she had one in each hand and was shaking them like maracas in time to the high-school marching band), her hat, and baby… those beads….
Of course, accessory confidence and flag skills weren’t isolated to the girls next door.
The handsome tater tots were just as expressive in their flamboyant fashion sensibilities.
And, as in all communities, there was a wide range of tastes in evidence. Some were satisfied with a more refined approach.
This elegant red-white-and-blue ensemble, set off with a modest yet decidedly “there” map motif and single strand of beads, was representative of the more demure side of the street. Simple, understated, yet bold enough to eschew a hat altogether in the hot July sun….
Again, check the shoes.
I almost mommy-bit those wee calves. I didn’t, though. I could see he was struggling.
A flotilla of bead-tossin’ beauty queens had driven past and his well-meaning older sister had snagged and re-gifted unto him two additional sets of beads.
Not all gifts are warmly received.
Personal fashion sense will always have the final word, and this dude was definitely not a triple-strand kinda guy. However, when the necklaces are longer than your arms, plus you have a candy as big as your fist in one hand, paring down can be tough going.
Of course, there will always be a place in the world for women of big hats.
With this kind of flair, there will be no sun damage in this punkin’s future.
And, there will always be beach blondes with mothers who understand the value of a good set of scrunchies and bows.
When was the last time I wore a scrunchie? I used to love the big fat ones. I don’t recall ever sporting patriotic ribbonage though. Not my fault. Not my mother’s fault. It’s just not the Canadian way. We feel somehow it’s slightly unpatriotic to be overly patriotic.
I do, however, respect and admire the unabashed American-ness of American pride.
And in about eight years or so, when this little sweetie has traded in her Fourth of July head gear for the flippy skirt and pom-poms of the high school cheer leading squad, I plan to be among the admiring crowd cheering her on from the sidelines.
You’ll recognize me easily enough. I’ll be the one wearing red, white, and blue.
This is Will. Last September, Will and Jessica opened the Scratch restaurant…
… here …
… (in Victor, Idaho, to be precise), and they make the best dang…
… and …
… on the planet.
This is only appropriate, since Jessica and Will care about the planet and are committed to sustainable restaurant practices. They buy local when possible, box your leftovers in compostable containers, and serve meat that was more or less happy when slaughtered. (Hey, we all have our down days.)
They’re also committed to me sustaining my need for my fat jeans.
The food is both ridiculously delicious and inexpensive: think “French bistro” with all the butter and none of the ‘tude.
We went for dinner the first night, and then back for breakfast the next morning. The only thing stopping us from going back for lunch that day was the fear they’d think we were stalking them.
The restaurant is teeny, clean, and sweet…
… and just ask Jessica how big the portions are.
Once you decide what you want…
… you can sit at the counter and watch them do this,
… and this. They laugh a lot for a couple who work 16-hour days.
I should have taken a photo of the perfectly spiced, exquisitely textured buffalo wings I had the first night for dinner, but by the time it occurred to me, all that was left was this.
Sorry. I’ll just have to go back and try for some dinner shots again tomorrow. Or maybe tonight.
