Black feet, black bears, and getting back to normal

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Last week was a week I will never forget. A week so surreal, a week so not my normal.

My normal is as quiet as I want it to be, with time to do what I want, what I need, with all of that time punctuated with varying degrees of missing my grandsons.

Not last week, though. Last week my grandsons were at my house, and I was their primary caretaker. The house was blissfully loud—interspersed with occasional loud moments not so blissful, too, I must admit. I had little time to do what I needed for myself, but also no time to miss my grandsons, for they were by my side while their mom and dad attended a conference nearby. Time with Bubby and Mac was the very best part of my not-normal week.

My normal is relatively mild in terms of temperatures. Not so last week. Triple-digit heat, record heat, historically high heat literally never before felt in Colorado Springs marked the temperature gauge in unprecedented fashion. Day after day after day. It’s just heat, some might say. Stay in the house and turn on the air. It's no big deal. In a house—in my house—that has no air conditioning, though, it is a big deal. It’s hot. It’s hell. A hell I didn't want to deal with myself, much less impose upon my grandsons.

And then, well, then there was the Waldo Canyon Fire. The horrific part of the week. The heartbreaking part. The surreal part.

Tuesday evening rush hour, driving with my grandsonsSurreal in that on the west side of my city, hillsides, landmarks, homes were burning. People—families—were evacuated from their homes. Smoke and ash filled the sky, reaching as far as the city’s east side, my side.

Surreal in that every local television station went to 24/7 coverage of the disaster, the devastation. While my grandsons played nearby, I tried to watch. When they slept at night, Jim and I did watch, far into the night, especially on the most horrific day, on Tuesday.

Surreal in that I continually, obsessively checked Facebook, Twitter, email for news on friends and family, their safety and their homes. That I regularly received reports and texts from Megan and Preston as they tried—yet often failed—to enjoy their mountaintop conference and festivities while homes and Megan’s hometown burned within clear and heartbreaking view.

Surreal in that our health department warned residents to stay indoors, with windows shut and air-conditioning on, so as to not breathe in the ash and the soot. Having no air conditioning, we opted for taking the boys to various indoor play areas. We did our best each day to have a good time with them while the west side of our city burned. At night we wrestled with choosing between opening windows to let in cooler air to lower the hellish temps in the boys’ upstairs rooms or keeping the windows closed to avoid the soot and ash we were warned to keep out of our homes, our respiratory systems. Especially respiratory systems with itsy bitsy lungs the likes of Baby Mac’s…or even Bubby’s.

Wednesday afternoon, heading to an indoor play placeSurreal in that access to my mom, my sister, attractions we’d planned to visit with the boys was shut down, impassable for the entire week, as fire raged and firefighters needed to protect the highway, use the highway. That shelters, like refugee camps, were set up around the city for evacuees. That the state governor, the United States president visited to view my city’s disaster and devastation firsthand, to offer support.

We watched each day and each night—as often as we could while still attending to and enjoying our grandsons—as not only local news but national broadcasts revealed burned areas that looked like war zones, yet were neighborhoods I had visited, places friends lived. We and the rest of the city anxiously watched news conferences at 8 a.m. and 4 p.m. each day for updates on the status of the fire and evacuees, the successes of the firefighters.

All this while I and every other resident not in the line of the fire worried about, prayed about, cried about those who were.

All this while my grandsons visited and the hellish hot temperatures continued.

Even after the initial shock and awe of the fire and its horrific trail and toll, strange things, things so very not normal, continued. Expected things like subconsciously searching the sky for new plumes of smoke and endlessly tossing about with others the figures related to homes burned, evacuees remaining, fire containment percentages.

Bubby's soot-covered feetUnexpected things, too. Such as realizing that going barefoot around my house—which my grandsons and I usually do—resulted in black soles thanks to the soot and the ash coating my home despite the miles between the fire and us. Black soles that required me to scrub my grandsons’ little piggies at bath time and scrub my own big piggies before bedtime to remove the grime. And the unexpected sound of packs of coyotes howling as they roamed my neighborhood, of having a black bear amble down my street. The coyotes and the bear, along with elk spotted in the center of town and countless other wild and displaced animals searched for a home that, like the 350 homes of local human residents, burned, is gone.

So strange. So sad.

This week I’m still sad about the displaced animals, the displaced people, the burned homes and trails and landmarks. Yet, this week, I feel a little closer to normal. The air and sky are clear of smoke, the ash and soot have been cleaned from my house. My grandsons have gone home, television coverage of the fires has been reduced to a crawl at the bottom of the screen. The pass to my mom has re-opened. The fire moves ever closer to containment.

I do still scan the sky for new smoke and for rain that would lower the still-hot temps and dampen the still-burning fire. And I make sure to watch the evening news and check #WaldoCanyonFire on Twitter throughout the day. I also continue to be on the lookout for lost and frightened animals in my neighborhood. Overall, though, it’s been relatively easy for me to get back to normal.

I’m fortunate, blessed, and thankful. For many others in my city, getting back to normal hasn’t been so easy. My heart, my thoughts, my prayers go out to them—to those who are still reeling, who must build new homes and new lives, who have yet to create a new normal.

Today's question:

The Waldo Canyon Fire evacuees had mere hours, sometimes less, to gather personal belongings from their homes. What would you grab first—other than people and pets—in the event of evacuation?

A full nest once more

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No, my daughters haven't moved home. And, no, my grandsons aren't visiting.

Still, the nest is full. Literally. The nest right outside my window, the one nearest my desk, where I spend much of my day.

Mourning doves usually inhabit the nest each season. Which doesn't always turn out so well. A couple weeks ago, though, this is what I noticed:  

A robin, settled in and protecting what I assumed were eggs.

I've checked in on her now and again, passed her on my way to get the morning newspaper, warned visitors to not disturb the head-height branch when walking by.

Mama Robin has always been protective of her home and what it held, but I could never see anything within it, even when I climbed atop a stool to better peer out my window and into her nest.

Until yesterday. I saw activity, grabbed my camera, and throughout the day captured the following.

 

Maybe not a big deal to some, but after a particularly long run of crappy days and crappy news, the full and thriving nest—and the fact it was right outside my window—was significant to me, brought tears to my eyes.

The momentum has shifted.

Today's question:

How has nature recently brightened your outlook—or at least your day?

Flowers and dogs

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I originally planned a rant-filled post for today to talk about my terrifying experience walking my dogs on Tuesday, the day a stray dog—yes, a pit bull, but let's not go there as my Mickey is part pit bull—attacked Mickey, Lyla, and myself as we headed home. Mickey took the brunt of it...no, all of it. I was going to show you pictures like this (graphic and hard to look at) one of my poor Mickey when he returned from the vet after the attack: 

And I was going to climb atop my soap box to <cuss> and complain about irresponsible dog owners who don't keep their dogs restrained as they should, tagged as they should in case they do escape, and cared for as they should. I planned to note that not doing such things is especially irresponsible for pit bull owners—who, if they're going to have pit bulls, should do right by them and the public!—and when a dog is obviously a nursing mother with babies somewhere. I was going to complain about the injuries to my dog, the injuries to my pocketbook because no owner has been found to reimburse me for vet bills, and the injuries to the abandoned puppies and the nursing/attacking mother who is now held at the Humane Society until May 21 and will be euthanized if not claimed by her owner before then. I've called; she's not been claimed. Despite what she did to Mickey, that breaks my heart.

But...

Instead of telling you all that, I've chosen to focus on something more positive today since I can't do diddly about what happened to Mickey. My more positive focus? Flowers.

Below is a slideshow of flower photos I've taken over the past month. Some are from Megan's place in the desert, some are from my place in the mountains, many are of the blooming beauties Jim and the girls gave me for Mother's Day.

Enjoy!

As the slideshow feature tends to cut off parts of the photos to fit the box, feel free to view the full photos HERE.

(PS: Mickey is doing a bit better. The vet promised a difficult time for the next 10-14 days and so far he's been right—but it's getting easier and less painful...for all of us.)

Today's question:

Flowers and dogs? Thoughts on either?