The Forest for the Trees

The first of many posts about photographing forests. Check out my 10 tips on photographing forests.

Let me introduce you to my enthusiasm of photographing forest scenes and why I get excited about photographing forests.

I grew up on the wet side of the Cascade Mountains in the Pacific Northwest, and I didn't know how good I had it. I'm a bit claustrophobic and the thick forests around the Puget Sound, at times, made me tense and anxious. I would often escape to the east side of the mountains to "let my eyes breathe". I felt free, and still to this day feel a sense of freedom when I hit the road to drive over Snoqualmie Pass into the arid open lands of eastern Washington. The colors of the earth filled of hazy greens and browns fascinated me - and I could see to the horizon. The west side of the mountains were just so  . . . green and if I could see to anything in the distance, it was usually the next tree. I felt locked in by those trees, trapped.

It was no wonder that I moved to the front range of the Rockies after college. Big open skies, prairies that went on forever, mountains at my back. I was in love with the sights, the tones, the smells. Even after moving home Montana, Wyoming and Colorado still pull at my heart. But what I didn't have there, what I couldn't have was the cool embrace of the Puget Sound forests. I missed them more than I thought possible. I came home on a wet autumn day - the gold and brown leaves of Big Leaf Maples drifting to the ground to rest in puddles in the roadway. Every frayed nerve in my body dissipated. I was home.

Winter that year was grey, the kind of grey that seeps into every color in the spectrum. But as spring arrived, I began to realize how many tones of green I had missed in my early years. As leaves unfurled in the forest the greens were soft and fresh. They appeared to vibrate to the sunlight as it streamed through the canopy to touch the different shades and textures of green. Oh, how my eyes opened. I drank in every new green I could see and held it close its beauty. To this day spring is one of my favorite times to photograph the forest. I love to tell its story of life and rejuvenation.

As summer takes hold, the forest is a cool place to relax from the hectic days of activity. I slow down when I enter the forest. The trees shade my trail and I look for the textures in the moss and leaves. Flowers and berries dot the trail side with splashes of color - contrasting beautifully against the greens of Salal and Oregon Grape.

But all too soon it seems, splashes of another season begin to show in the bright places along the edges of the forest. Vine Maple is the first to turn from green. Oranges and reds speckle the landscape - demonstrating to the rest of the forest how beautiful it can become. Autumn would be my other favorite season in the trees as the vibrant colors of berry bushes and deciduous trees compliment the dark greens of our conifer.

Growing up, I used to describe winter as grey. Everything was grey, even yellow. Grey, boring, and depressing. I really can't say that anymore. I head to the forest for contrasts during the winter months. Contrast of white snow against dark trees. The soft texture of snow against the rough texture of bark. The movement of falling snow against the stationary forest.

Each forest season has its story and I am eager to help tell it.

What's your nationality?

What's your nationality?

It's a simple question with responses about being German, English, French, more likely a combination of ancestral heritage. I've asked the question of friends and friends have asked the question of me. And we've answered without much thought to the question or our answer.

It's a conversation starter.

But not the type of conversation I was expecting when I asked a friend while hiking this past summer.

Her answer startled me. Embarrassed me. And made me think.

"What's your nationality?" I asked.

"I'm American." she replied.

But of course she is. I had not intended for my question to imply that she wasn't. I sputtered an apology and reframed my question and she answered, Taiwanese, and our conversation continued. As did the conversation in my head.

I wondered why I was startled and embarrassed until I realized that she had slapped me upside the head with my white privilege as my mother would have slapped me when I did something stupid. A solid backhanded slap that let me know she was tired of my antics. Here I was getting the verbal equivalent from my hiking buddy.

I know I have privilege. I was not born with the proverbial silver spoon - far from it. I was a farm kid who ate her pets. For a time when dad was out of work, I would accompany mom to the food bank for our weekly allotment of butter, cheese, and oatmeal. I was however born with a hereditary silver spoon - I was born a white American. And I have benefited from that privilege - simple things mostly like being served more graciously than people of color were served. Yes, I've noticed the difference.

You see, to be born white in America grants you the privilege of never having to remind people that you are an American. You never have to defend your American heritage. It is automatically assumed. We've all made that mistake - looking at a European family vacationing here and not realizing they're tourists until they start speaking. But my friends who are Asian and my friends who are Hispanic, well it's assumed that they were not born here or, worse yet, are "illegal".

We expect People of Color to prove to us that they are American instead of assuming that they are.

My question that I asked my friend - how many times have you actually been asked, "What's your nationality?" I know I haven't been asked very often. Have you? I neglected to ask, but I am sure my friend has been asked that question all her life and far too often than she'd like to recall. I am sorry I added to that list. It was my assumptions based on my privilege that made me ask.

I was reminded of this conversation today when I saw a "corrected" meme. The original meme stated that It doesn't matter if you're black, white, yellow or brown - You're an American start acting like it. The corrected version stated that Whether you're black, white, yellow or brown - You're an American start treating each other like it.

I really don't have the answers for all of us to magically get along, but I know that taking the time to ask the wrong questions, listening to the response then finding a better question - a conversation can get started.

In the Shadow of Dege Peak

In the month I’ve been away, the alpine meadows have begun to tarnish under the summer sun. The vibrant yellows and purples of spring wildflowers are replaced reds and golds of autumn.

Just yesterday, my sister posted a photo of bog gentian – its deep blur bell shaped flowers a stark contrast with the yellowing grasses in the frame. It is the herald for summer’s end. My friend Karen Sykes would look upon the low-lying blooms with sadness knowing autumn was right around the corner and the first winter snows nipping at its heels. Soon the high meadows will be under feet of snow.

There is no such thing as a lazy summer at 6400 feet. Spring is a hard-fought season in the NW mountains with avalanche and glacier lilies pushing their way through the last snow drifts into July. As summer arrives, you can begin seeing the colors of autumn kissing the foliage and flowers start to seed. Life is on a limited clock in the alpine zone. In a few weeks, purple cascade asters will curl onto themselves and the only blooms left are the white heads of the pearly everlasting. But the huckleberry bushes and the false hellebore leaves change to more vibrant colors.

Albert Camus once said, “Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower.” In an alpine meadow the flowery leaves come in the warmer hues of the rainbow. The seed pods are gathered by the critters who will live under the snow for the next months. If there is any season that luxuriates in the mountains, it would be winter. Flurries begin coating the warm meadow colors as earl as September and last well into our low-land summer celebrations.

In Seattle, our only hint of oncoming fall and winter’s first flurries are fresh faced kids waiting at the bus stops and the Halloween decorations stacked up at our local stores. But here, in the shadow of Dege Peak on Mt Rainier, autumn has arrived.

Oh the Fern!

I learned an interesting little fact today. Quite surprised me.

The bracken fern is the most common fern in the northwest and throughout the world.

Growing up in the northwest, I had always thought our most common fern was the dark green sword fern. It's the fern that is seen on our forest floors all year round with its Christmasy green leathery leaves. You will always see the sword fern along your trails and paths. Then I'm told by a national park ranger I trust that no, the bracken fern is even more common than the sword fern.

So yeah, I had to look it up and wouldn't you know - the ranger was right. The bracken fern grows on every continent (except Antarctica) and in all life zones (except deserts). That's pretty amazing.

Not only is it prevalent around the globe, its fossil remains have been dated to 55 million years ago. It's old and abundant. The plant that just keeps going and growing no matter what mother nature throws at it.

In fact it was made to be dominant and take over. Allelopathic chemicals that inhibit growth of other plants are produced and released by bracken ferns. They seem to take over in areas of forest fire because of this chemical.

Another interesting tidbit I found is that the name bracken is derived from Swedish & Danish words that mean simply, fern. So when we say bracken fern we're really saying fern fern.

Then there's Plan B

Plan A:

It's my sister's birthday and we decide to gather our gear and hoof it out Eagle Creek in the Columbia Gorge. Check another trail off Kristi's bucket list, sleep under the Pacific Northwest sky, and shake out the cobwebs.

Eagle Creek is the most traveled trail in the Columbia Gorge - for good reason. While you will not have summit views, you will hike through a river canyon with moss covered walls, towering big leaf maples, fern-lined trails and 5 named waterfalls (and dozens of smaller unnamed falls). Most who hike the trail go in about 2 miles to see Punchbowl Falls. Others continue on to travel through Tunnel Falls - the trail is high on a cliff and they drilled a tunnel behind the falls to hike through. Stunning but not for those who have a fear of heights.

Even though it's highly traveled, it is so very worth experiencing. So it is on my sister's bucket list.

We invited our friend Evie, who will be joining us on our John Muir trip. Evie brought along her husband. I brought along Zillah.

The day wasn't shaping up to be perfect like the weather reports read, but we had faith the rain wouldn't start falling until we set up camp. We weren't 2 miles in when we needed to get our rain gear out and I looked at Zillah, already soggy and thought sharing a tent with her would not be good for either of us. After a quick consensus, we turned tail and hoofed it back to the car.

Plan B:

A waterfall tour of the gorge with short little hikes.

Our first stop was to Starvation Creek Falls for lunch. Perfect! The rain hadn't yet reached the area so we enjoyed the sun glistening through the new green foliage overhead. The new leaves sparkled in the sun. We left there just as the rain hit us and traveled back to Horsetail Falls. Then on to Multnomah Falls where we walked up to the overly crowded bridge and then bought Kristi a birthday ice cream.

Next stop Bridal Veil Falls where we stopped to photograph the wildflowers along the way. The sun began to peak out again, but we weren't too upset about that - we were having fun. The hike around the lower loop of Latourell Falls had us all giddy. We each saw something exciting to photograph and investigate. On up to Vista House to see the view, we noticed the clouds looked awful dark back the way we had come. Our last stop on Plan B was the Portland Women's Forum at Chanticleer Point for one more view. Just as we got there, the sun peaked through the clouds to light up Vista House. We congratulated not on the pretty picture though - we congratulated ourselves on calling it quits and avoiding the dark band of rain clouds on the horizon.

But it's icky Outside.

It happens the the best of us. We work all week, planning in our mind what we'll do after 5 pm on Friday. We imagine the places we'll see. The grand vistas to photograph at golden hour. The joy we'll have as we hike along the trail in beautiful meadows. As Friday afternoon winds down and gets closer to your time, the clouds creep in and the rain begins to fall and with it your heart.

Don't despair. There is still so much photography to do.

One of my favorite rainy day photo activities is to head to the nursery or greenhouse. In Seattle we're lucky enough to have the Volunteer Park Conservatory - a large greenhouse filled with tropical plants, orchids, and cacti. It's always warm on a cold rainy day.

As it is so warm and humid inside, you'll need to take care of your camera. The lens will immediately steam up as will the viewfinder and the screen. I bring a microfiber cleaning cloth with me to wipe off excess moisture while I meander around looking at the orchids and waiting for my camera to match the greenhouse temperature.

I also wipe the moisture of my diopter filters. I use these instead of a macro lens because I'm cheap and I really have no issue with the focus fall-off they can have. I rather like it - as I'm one of those artsy photographers.

The conservatory (and other greenhouses like them) frowns on the use of tripods so make sure you bump your ISO up to accommodate for hand-holding. On bright rainy days, I can usually get away with 400 ISO. When working with flowers and macro, I tend to open up my aperture fairly wide so I have a very narrow plane of focus. If you like more detail and want a smaller aperture, you'll want to bump your ISO up to 800 or more if your camera can handle the increased sensitivity without adding too much noise. Always be respectful of the rules. Tripods tend to get in the way of other visitors.

I have a few indoor destinations that I like to head to when the weather turns wet. Check your area for a few that you can run to for some playtime with your camera. There is never a need to put away your camera when it's raining. You can still have some photo fun and then go home, make some popcorn, put in a sappy movie, and edit your macro treasures.

Do you know the story of me?

Hi my name is Heidi. Do you know my story? Not MY story but the story of a little girl living with her grandpa in the Swiss Alps who moves to the city to live with her aunt, uncle and her cousin Clara? It's a story I know all too well. When I was 7, I was given at 3 different holidays, the book entitled Heidi. How many of the same book does one child need?

As a refresher, Heidi lived with her grandpa in the mountains and spent her days playing in the meadows with her friend Peter and his herd of goats. Her aunt and uncle come to take her to the city where she can go to school and befriend her cousin Clara, a child suffering from illness so that she could not walk. In the city, Heidi becomes depressed so her aunt and uncle send her to visit her grandfather and Peter and allow Clara to go with her. While they are visiting, and avalanche closes the way and they are stranded in the mountains for months. When Clara's parents finally reach the cabin, fearing the worse after months without Drs and medicine they find that Clara is happy, healthy and walking. The power of nature on a person is nurturing and healing.

I may have been named Heidi but I am more like Clara. I was a sick child always dealing with stomach issues of nausea and cramping. Colds that turned quickly into bronchitis. And parents who started to believe the doctors when they couldn't figure out what was wrong with me so referred to me as lazy (I was faking ill to get out of school & chores), attention seeking, or hypochondriac.

They couldn't find anything wrong with me because they had no idea at the time where to look. Years later, I was diagnosed with a rare hereditary liver disease. Soon followed by a diagnosis of Celiac and other food sensitivities which contributed to the stomach problems. Then this past year on a deep blood test where they were looking for anything and everything (I was dizzy and weak while hiking which turned out to be anemia) they found I am missing a blood protein, an immunoglobulin that protects the mucus layer in your sinuses and lungs (hello, bronchitis).

I don't tell this story for you to feel sorry for me or indignant. But to share with you while I always felt like Clara in the story, I really was Heidi. With all my illnesses, the only place I felt healthy was hiking through the forests and along a wildflower-filled alpine meadow. I could forget about my health while in the mountains. Heidi in the story persuaded Clara to come to the mountains and she was healed. I persuade myself to camp and hike and I too am healed.

When I was 7, I hated being named Heidi. Now I know I am Heidi and Clara and whole.

Spring Flowers

Before the spring equinox, as the earth starts to warm with lengthening days, they appear quietly gently nuzzling their way from the protection of leaves and soil. We look for them as spring approaches – to let ourselves know that the dark dismal days of winter are receding behind us and adventure and hope are before us.

Small spring flowers, in the wilds and our gardens. We begin to see Indian Plum, tassels of white shivering in the breeze like pom-poms of an excited cheerleader, willing her team to win. Indian Plum lets us know that our hopes will be answered, quickly as other flowers begin to bloom.

In the garden, Snow Drops and Crocus emerge to add brightness to the day. Short-lived Camellias splash color across waxy green shrubs. Not long afterwards spring begins to fill your senses.

The air smells cleaner after a spring shower. Bird song fills the air. The sun begins to warm your face. There’s a lightness in your being, a bounce in your step, a smile on your lips.

Revel in spring. 

Jewels in the Meadow

Clouds hang low over the mountain meadows dampening the fiery hues of autumn. Grey mists create a backdrop to the reds of the huckleberry and golden grasses. There is no distance for your eyes to wander so instead they wander through the meadow followed closely by your feet.

Raindrops clinging tenuously to leaves and blades of grass quiver in the slight breeze letting go as you pass, anxious to wet your shoes. You stop to watch as they fall. As gravity pulls them downward, they stretch grasping desperately to their perch until suddenly they let go and splatter onto your boots.

Drops sparkle in the muted sunlight - a string of jewels along a stalk of grass bowing deeply to your passing. Glittering in a cluster in the palm of a dried lupine. Dangling precariously from the tip of a brightly colored leaf. One breath and they fall. One step and they're gone.

The meadow beckons you forward and you follow to see the views - not up and out, but down and inward.

Taking Flight

The finger resting on my camera's shutter release had already lost feeling, numb from exposure to the frigid January morning. But morning is one of the best times to photograph birds which is why we were at the Billy Frank Jr Nisqually Wildlife Refuge - we were photographing birds.

It had been a few years since my last visit to the refuge and I'd had a bit of a hankering to get back down there, but I also wanted to schedule a trip during high tide in hopes of seeing more duck closer in. After checking the tide charts for the area, I decided to run down on the last Sunday in January. Then I thought it would be fun to invite a few people to join me and opened up an activity through the Seattle Mountaineers.

I was joined by my sister, a couple of our friends, a hiking buddy and a few new people in my life. Most were naturalists of some type who had no problem telling this non-birder about the birds we were seeing. One participant drew my attention. He is the the director of the State Parks Foundation, the fundraising partner for the Washington State Parks Commission. A person of interest for a photographer writing a book about the state parks.

We chatted a bit about birds and a little about the book. He even gave me a few ideas on finding a boat or two to get me to the smaller islands in the San Juans. And when he and another fellow had difficulty with their cameras, I was able to step in with my expertise and help them make the necessary adjustments.

By the end of the morning, my spirit took flight with hope and joy that my project has support and I will be able to finish.

Washington State Parks: South Cle Elum Railyard

Each step landed with a poof. A soft sound of gentle air lifting a fine dust of snow. Powdery snow floats and swirls around our ankles for seconds before coming to rest again; to mix with snow appearing undisturbed by our passing. The only sign we were there, a shallow trench dug by our snowshoes. We stop at each sign on the history trail, imagining a world long ago past and what historical treasures might be hidden beneath the snow.

South Cle Elum Railyard is an affiliated state park narrating the story of the once great Milwaukee Railroad. In the early 1900’s, the Milwaukee Railroad decided to expand into the northwest to compete with two other transcontinental railroads that were already established in the area – the Northern Pacific Railroad and the Great Northern Railway. Division points where locomotives were serviced, crews switched, and passenger embarked and dis-embarked were located 100-150 miles apart. South Cle Elum became one of these division points. The Milwaukee Road ceased its operations in Washington during the 1980’s and transferred ownership of the rail station to the state to “pay” its tax debt. In 2003, the rail yard and buildings were listed on the National Register of Historical Places.

A short trail loops through an eastern Washington meadow. Look for wildflowers and small birds as you pass from one interpretive sign to the next. Remnants of the rail yard still exist in the meadow and can add interesting details to your images. The old rail station houses a BBQ restaurant and museum but still has its early 20^th century charm with multi-paned windows and wide wooden platforms with benches to sit upon and watch the afternoon drift away.

Getting There: From Snoqualmie Pass follow I-90 east to exit 84 (Cle Elum/S Cle Elum). Continue on 1^st Street to S Cle Elum Way, turn right. Turn right on Madison Ave then left on 6th Street. Turn right on Milwaukee to the parking lot. From Ellensburg follow 1-90 west to exit 84 (Cle Elum). Continue on Oakes Ave to 1^st Street, turn left. Turn left onto S Cle Elum way and follow directions above.

Misdirection

It was day 3 of a 5-day backpack and I had lost the trail. The “trail” I had been following petered out to nothing more than an animal track in the alpine tundra. The rest of my party were coming up behind me and my mind racing as to what to do. And this was supposed to be a nice easy trip too.

After my dog ate a hole in the dry wall large enough for a herd of wildebeest to migrate through, my sister and I started backpacking during the doggy-terrifying 4th of July holiday. This year we had decided on a 5-day excursion in the Buckhorn Wilderness of Olympic National Forest and invited a couple of friends and another dog to join us. 

We planned on 5 days for a 30-mile, leisurely paced, loop that our friends who weren't accustomed to backpacking would find enjoyable. It had been 20 years since Holly had backpacked and this would be Evie's 1st time. Our route took us up Copper Creek to Buckhorn Lake then over to Marmot Pass and out the Upper Dungeness. This route had the added bonus of being far enough away from fireworks to protect the drywall from the dog.

We gathered mid-morning on day one and my sister, Kristi, handed to each of us a  map she printed off from AllTrails with our route highlighted. We made it to our 1^st night’s camp near Tubal Cain Mine easily and explored the area. Day 2 found us at Buckhorn Lake, relaxing in view of Buckhorn Mountain.

Everything on Day 3 started out perfectly. Wispy clouds drifted in and around Buckhorn Mountain, but the weather was warm and sunny while we broke down camp. I had become the defacto leader of the group since my dog, Zillah, and I were in front and I had traveled most of the route before. Day 3 would be on the section of trail I had never hiked. I folded my map to the section we were hiking and stuffed it in an easily accessible pocket. Really, I didn’t think we’d need the map as most trails in the area are well-marked.

We hiked out from the lake to the main trail and continued our climb to Marmot Pass, our expected camp for the night. Zillah and I led the way and soon Kristi, Evie and Holly were several switchbacks behind. By late morning, I had climbed beyond most of the trees and sat to wait for the rest of my group. I watched other hikers and backpackers pass me on their way up or down keeping an eye out on their route so I could point it out to my friends and feel more confident as we continued. I also watched the clouds as they had been building throughout the morning often obscuring Buckhorn Mountain and the ridges on its flanks. It was still sunny where we were but the wind was picking up and I wondered if we might need to push on to Boulder Camp further along on our route.

Just before the rest of my group met up with me, a small group of day-hikers came upon me - they told me they were camping at Camp Mystery just below Marmot Pass and were heading down to Buckhorn Lake. We exchanged information and they continued on. Once we all gathered together, we found a secluded area out of the wind for lunch. I mentioned the hikers and pointed out the route that we’d be taking – just a few more switchbacks and over a little knoll then it would be relatively flat for a bit.

At some point after topping out over the knoll, I spotted a trail that I believed to be our trail – the trail we would never reach. But we had reached the alpine tundra and were enjoying a stroll through the higher altitude. The clouds covered most of the sky above us, occasionally drifting down to shroud the landscape in a misty fog. And it was here I lost the trail.

My first error was following the group of day-hikers I had talked to earlier. They passed us on their return and I thought that they must know where they’re going. I was paying more attention to where they were going than where the trail was going. They ended up going cross country and climbing up on a ridge along Buckhorn Mountain. I began to realize that they weren’t going the direction we wanted to go.

Our second error was to think we still had to go forward instead of turning back to the last place we knew where we were. I suggested we skirt around the snow patch that blocked our way and continue on, while Holly found what looked like a trail off on one side. And instead of turning back, we too climbed up to the ridge along Buckhorn Mountain and again lost the trail.

By now the cold wind had picked up and the clouds around us were alternating between a thick fog and a thin fog. There was no way for me to get our bearing by compass. Holly again scouted and found what this time looked like a real trail but which way should we go. Without a line of sight, I couldn’t get my bearing or figure out where we were on the map or which way we would need to go to get to Marmot Pass. I was figuring we go right on the trail but after my previous misdirections, my friends were hesitant to believe me. And I really couldn’t blame them for my confidence was shaken.

Our relief came as a pair of hikers approached us from the left. They had also made the mistake of climbing the ridge as we had and were hesitant to go the same route back to Buckhorn Lake. I explained our dilemma and asked if they knew which way Marmot Pass was but they weren’t positive. We pulled out our maps and he pulled out his altimeter. We were 600 feet above the pass.

We turned right to head down the trail not up. Soon we were out of the clouds and heading to Marmot Pass. One look at the angry clouds over the pass and the frigid wind coming through, we opted to continue to Boulder Camp for the night. The rest of our trip was quiet and uneventful.

One happy occurrence while we descended off Buckhorn Mountain, we met a nanny goat, her kid and a juvenile. It was a thrilling moment for Evie and Holly who hadn’t been that close to goats before.

Lessons learned:

1.     Don’t blindly follow people on the trail. They may not be going the same direction you are or they might not know where they’re going themselves. If I had stopped to evaluate the other group, I would have taken better note that only one of them seemed well-prepared to be out hiking.

2.     Do drop your pack if necessary and scout behind you. We may have lost the trail only a few hundred yards back. If any one of us had been willing to do that, we may have found the point where we went off trail.

3.     Altimeters aren’t only for climbers. If I had one I might have noticed earlier that we should have been dropping in elevation instead of climbing. We would have had more information to make decisions earlier.

I’m still curious as to where we lost the trail. I’d like to make a reverse trip soon so I can find the trail.

Firsts

The snow lightly falling through the forest.

Snowflakes on your eyelashes.

The soft crunch of the snow under your snowshoes.

The biting cold numbing your nose, your ears, your cheeks.

Life is filled with firsts that are not soon forgotten. Do you remember your first snowshoe?

I do - I climbed up Mt Catherine near Snoqualmie Pass to learn how to glissade and self-arrest for a climb up Mt St Helens. It was a tough go for me but I ended the day satisfied that I had learned new skills and eager for more.

Just as memorable is being with a child as they experience their first snowshoe.

On January 1st of this year, I accompanied my sister and her granddaughter on her first snowshoe.

We meandered along Wenatchee Crest off Blewett Pass. The wind carried falling snow through the trees and coated our hats. No views were to be had, but snowball fights and snow angels were aplenty. Giggles and laughter floated through the air with the snow.

I'm sure she'll remember her first snowshoe - I know I will.

Three Little Words

It was a call I wasn't expecting from a number I didn't recognize so the phone was left vibrating on the table.

It was my cousin T and in her message she said to call her anytime. So I did.

The voice on the other end of the phone sounded as normal as ever.

"Can you text me your sister's number?" Pause. "I have bad news."

Bad news? Cousin T doesn't have bad news. Her very existence in the world reminds me of all that is good in my life.

"Mom has cancer."

It's the kind of news that makes you go numb. The rest of the conversation is blur of words.

"She's alert."

"Refusing treatment."

"Don't know how much longer."
"She's known for a while."
"We're supporting her in her decisions."

Maybe I shouldn't have called when I had, before heading to bed.

My thoughts went to memories of a woman cooking delicious food in her kitchen. She was always in her kitchen. Always making something warm, nutritional and filled with love. My mom would sit in her kitchen and they'd share  family news while I sat on mom's lap listening to their conversations wrapped in the comfort of mom's arms and Auntie's kitchen.

Memories of my teen years when I decided not to like her very much. She is a woman who doesn't mince words being of good sound farmer stock where telling the truth in as few words as possible is a virtue. I didn't see it like that. I didn't like how she spoke to my mom. I didn't want to see the truth.

Then in my later years, when I came back home to take care of Dad. I uprooted my life for family. Unsure of what was to become my future. It was in her living embrace where I found comfort. In her words I learned to stand on my own.

Years ago she broke her leg and I went down for a few days to help care for her. I stood in her kitchen and made her meals - warn, nutritional and filled with love.