ARIZONA MICHIGAN
*Silhouettes of peaceful, purpled mountains *The way a blanket of freshly fallen snow
and the towering ink palm trees against the dusts the top of previously fallen snow so
backdrop of rose-blush and tangerine sunsets that all the sharp lines of the footprints &
that never disappoint. snow angels are softened. And how snow
can appear white or ochre or a serene,
sparkling perewinkle, depending on the
time of day and the mood of the sky.
The above was saved so I could move to a computer that would allow me an hour of use, but it's all jumbled. I read it over and thought it was kind of cool. It was supposed to be side-by-side columns listing the sunny spots in both Arizona and Michigan, but it didn't save the way I formatted it (by hand, not using the tools because none of the tools allow 2 lists next to each other). So here they are; separated: (grrrr)
ARIZONA
*Silhouettes of peaceful, purpled mountains and towering, inked palms and cypress trees against the backdrop of rose-blush and tangerine sunsets that never disappoint.
*Nearly scalding hot water straight from the tap--no wait time. (Good for washing dishes and boiling water for hot tea or noodles in a jiffy!)
*Which brings me to the curiousity of: Butt facials...buttials? Even the toilets have hot water! A steam bath for the butt.
*Our neighbor, Heather, who out of the grandness of her heart simply handed Grace and me a stack of books she thought we'd like to borrow--three of which were SARK books (five of which were doggie books and kid craft books that Grace loves...we've started a dried apple head person already...). I've finally read a SARK book! (Eat Mangoes Naked) Could SARK be my long-lost aunt?
*Sedona (I haven't actually been there yet, but I know I'll love the red rock vistas and the energy vortexes.)
*No matter how short or involved the errand, I am always driving toward magical magnetic mountains. We are surrounded. I marvel at them in front of me, through the windshield, and behind me through the rearview mirror as I drive. My eyes gobble up a feast no matter where they look.
*Bigger bugs (so I can qucikly spot them to escort them back outside).
*DRY heat.
*The shiny glint of palm leaves dancing with the warm breezes in the ubiquitous light of the sun that make you stare in wonder: surely someone placed polished, plastic, paper up there for fun? But no, this is one of Mother Nature's quirky delights!
*The abundance of freshly baked (and cheap!) corn and flour tortillas available at any store that sells groceries.
*Any spot on the rim of the Grand Canyon.
*Sizzling sepias!
*Our second storey stoop where I can observe everything--the mountains, the trees, the 20 people that will most certainly walk by our apartment within an hour's time.
*The way Arizonians share their roads with bikers.
*Joel.
MICHIGAN
*The way a blanket of freshly fallen snow is like fairy dust on previously fallen snow; all the sharp lines of the footprints and snow angels are softened. And how snow can appear white or ochre or a serene, sparkling perewinkle, depending on the time of day and the mood of the sky.
*Crisp, cold water straight from the tap--no wait time. (Good for drinking and cooling down a freshly brewed batch of iced-tea.)
*Together, two hands serve as an instant map of Michigan's upper and lower peninsulas (right hand upright, facing you, left hand perpendicular, to left of and above right-voila!). Those of us born and raised get quite a bit of use out of our hand maps when discussing locations with others.
*Our neighbor, Phyllis, who is 93 years young; she always has an interesting story or local history tid-bit to tell.
*Saugatuck.
*Apple orchards and Cider Mills in the fall (hot cake donuts, hay rides, pumpkin patches...).
*Smaller bugs (so as not to startle me so easily).
*Cool breezes.
*That maple tree on our street that turns to a fiery red-orange while the other trees still sit with their greens.
*The bounty of fresh (and cheap!) locally grown produce.
*Any beach on Lake Michigan.
*Gorgeous greens!
*Our front porch swing where I can sit and be solitary with our sheltering Oak; or share it with my family and attend to tales of their day's events.
*Plentiful parks perfectly plunged into nature's oasis, complete with running and biking trails.
*Nathan
* * *
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Water...Or Lack Thereof
During our first week here, we drove on an overpass on the way to the library and Nate said, "It's funny, in Michigan we have overpasses for going over water; here, they're for going over a little canyon of desert area."
Yes, as it turns out those "little canyons of desert" become washes for the rivers of rain to flow through during this, Arizona's monsoon season. ( I've read that it is improper grammar to use the word "season" with the word "monsoon" because monsoon is a season; we do tend to say the "fall season" or the "winter season" and it didn't sound right to just say "it is monsoon in Arizona"...) These monsoon thunderstorms are akin to spring and summer thunderstorms in Michigan. As in Michigan, they can be violent and sudden, knocking power lines down and causing floods. But, the glaring difference is that because they get rain so infrequently here throughout the entire year (they don't have images of a cacti on their state license plates for nothing), the ground is considerably harder so when it does rain, the parched earth can't imbibe that gift from the sky as zestfully or as willingly as it does in Michigan. (Also, as my husband's buddy pointed out, they don't have nearly as many drains here as they do back east--he's from Rhode Island.)
Bottom line: Water easily overwhelms here in Arizona.
Tantamount to how the exceptional temperatures of Arizona can easily overwhelm a native Michigander like me.
On our first day at our new apartment, I had gone out to purchase necessities such as food staples, contact paper, and a shower curtain. It was 112 degrees Fahrenheit. Nathan aptly compared the feeling of walking outside to that of when you feel the blast of heat when opening a hot oven, "only it never goes away and it's all around your body and face...all the time". Or, he said, it's like standing next to a hot car engine but again, he addded,"all the time, all over your body, and in your face". As if I could forget. Yes, perfect analogies, I told him.
As I trekked across the vast black-top parking lot toward the store, I took a deep breath and embraced that oven-like quality of the intense Arizona heat. Rather than complain to myself, "Man, it's hot out here!"--I was actually smiling at what an intriguingly different sensation walking outside could be. Not bad; just different.
I promise you, I am not a heat person. My favorite season is autumn in Michigan, with an Indian Summer or two thrown in. Sixty to seventy-eight degrees Fahernheit---ahhhhh. Bliss. I can keep my windows open to feel the cool breezes or let the whispering leaves of the great Oak in my front yard lull me to sleep each night.
Honestly, I truly was embracing Arizona's delightfully distinct desert climate. Though it's consistantly hotter here, it's lighter, not so heavy, and amazingly, on that 112 degree day, I barely broke into a sweat. It's discombobulating, really. In Michigan when it reaches the 90s as it often does in the summer, you can count on a massive side of heavy, humid air to go with it. Hot humidity goes hand in hand with sweat, more sweat, and mosquitos!
Not an issue here in Arizona. Hallelujah!
On the flip side, during that shopping trip on that first day here, as I roamed through the store I thought, Boy, I need to drink some more water when I get home.
Then, ten minutes later: Whew! I wish there was a water fountain right here where I'm standing.
And finally, just: Water...water...Oh, I need to grab a silverware tray...water...water...Oh yeah, and a trash container...and where are those shower curtains?...water-water-water...I better buy a water bottle at the check-out to drink on the way home...cool, cool water...Mmmm-can't wait for that waterwaterwaterwater...
But by the time I had reached the cashier, I realized I couldn't wait until I was at the car to drink. I cracked the cap open right there in front of the cashier, waiting (smiling, but actually impatient) for her to hand me the receipt, and immediately thereafter--I drank.
And drank. And drank some more.
It was only a regular 20 ounce bottle, but I'm not much of a drinker in general. Yeah, yeah, I'm a nurse in another life and I know how important water is and that I was already dehydrated when I felt that thirst, but I can't guzzle it and I rarely drink 64 ounces daily. Not even when I overhydrate myself three or four days before giving blood. More like 30-40 ounces in Michigan; about 50 ounces here in Arizona (and I feel great and my urine is clear...on a day of hiking or other such activity, of course, it's much more). But when I get busy, as I was on that day of moving and all...well, I tried to be conscious of my fluid intake (and I love water--it's my number one beverage choice) but I'm sure I slacked.
So that July first day, when I guzzled 15 ounces of H2O before heading back out in that arid Arizona air, I could actually feel the individual cells of my body expanding their withered, semipermeable plasma membranes in joyful appreciation.
I've worked out my whole life. I've done lots of runs for charity--lots of training for those runs--long runs, too; I trained for and completed a marathon (held here in Arizona--but in January), but the thirst I felt that day was definately a different animal. It stayed with me for days--the memory of that feeling, that full-body, parched feeling. Later that week, the kids and I watched the movie, "Holes". Though I've always empathized with strong movie characters, this time I was sure that when I'd seen it years earlier, I'd only thought I could understand how thirsty and hot and dry those kids felt in that desperate desert doom. But now...now I felt like we were kindred spirits. Now I felt I knew exactly how thirsty they really were!
Or so I told myself.
Hooray for water!
Hooray for Michigan's abundance of it!
Hooray for Arizona (for teaching me a much deeper appreciation for it)!
Yes, as it turns out those "little canyons of desert" become washes for the rivers of rain to flow through during this, Arizona's monsoon season. ( I've read that it is improper grammar to use the word "season" with the word "monsoon" because monsoon is a season; we do tend to say the "fall season" or the "winter season" and it didn't sound right to just say "it is monsoon in Arizona"...) These monsoon thunderstorms are akin to spring and summer thunderstorms in Michigan. As in Michigan, they can be violent and sudden, knocking power lines down and causing floods. But, the glaring difference is that because they get rain so infrequently here throughout the entire year (they don't have images of a cacti on their state license plates for nothing), the ground is considerably harder so when it does rain, the parched earth can't imbibe that gift from the sky as zestfully or as willingly as it does in Michigan. (Also, as my husband's buddy pointed out, they don't have nearly as many drains here as they do back east--he's from Rhode Island.)
Bottom line: Water easily overwhelms here in Arizona.
Tantamount to how the exceptional temperatures of Arizona can easily overwhelm a native Michigander like me.
On our first day at our new apartment, I had gone out to purchase necessities such as food staples, contact paper, and a shower curtain. It was 112 degrees Fahrenheit. Nathan aptly compared the feeling of walking outside to that of when you feel the blast of heat when opening a hot oven, "only it never goes away and it's all around your body and face...all the time". Or, he said, it's like standing next to a hot car engine but again, he addded,"all the time, all over your body, and in your face". As if I could forget. Yes, perfect analogies, I told him.
As I trekked across the vast black-top parking lot toward the store, I took a deep breath and embraced that oven-like quality of the intense Arizona heat. Rather than complain to myself, "Man, it's hot out here!"--I was actually smiling at what an intriguingly different sensation walking outside could be. Not bad; just different.
I promise you, I am not a heat person. My favorite season is autumn in Michigan, with an Indian Summer or two thrown in. Sixty to seventy-eight degrees Fahernheit---ahhhhh. Bliss. I can keep my windows open to feel the cool breezes or let the whispering leaves of the great Oak in my front yard lull me to sleep each night.
Honestly, I truly was embracing Arizona's delightfully distinct desert climate. Though it's consistantly hotter here, it's lighter, not so heavy, and amazingly, on that 112 degree day, I barely broke into a sweat. It's discombobulating, really. In Michigan when it reaches the 90s as it often does in the summer, you can count on a massive side of heavy, humid air to go with it. Hot humidity goes hand in hand with sweat, more sweat, and mosquitos!
Not an issue here in Arizona. Hallelujah!
On the flip side, during that shopping trip on that first day here, as I roamed through the store I thought, Boy, I need to drink some more water when I get home.
Then, ten minutes later: Whew! I wish there was a water fountain right here where I'm standing.
And finally, just: Water...water...Oh, I need to grab a silverware tray...water...water...Oh yeah, and a trash container...and where are those shower curtains?...water-water-water...I better buy a water bottle at the check-out to drink on the way home...cool, cool water...Mmmm-can't wait for that waterwaterwaterwater...
But by the time I had reached the cashier, I realized I couldn't wait until I was at the car to drink. I cracked the cap open right there in front of the cashier, waiting (smiling, but actually impatient) for her to hand me the receipt, and immediately thereafter--I drank.
And drank. And drank some more.
It was only a regular 20 ounce bottle, but I'm not much of a drinker in general. Yeah, yeah, I'm a nurse in another life and I know how important water is and that I was already dehydrated when I felt that thirst, but I can't guzzle it and I rarely drink 64 ounces daily. Not even when I overhydrate myself three or four days before giving blood. More like 30-40 ounces in Michigan; about 50 ounces here in Arizona (and I feel great and my urine is clear...on a day of hiking or other such activity, of course, it's much more). But when I get busy, as I was on that day of moving and all...well, I tried to be conscious of my fluid intake (and I love water--it's my number one beverage choice) but I'm sure I slacked.
So that July first day, when I guzzled 15 ounces of H2O before heading back out in that arid Arizona air, I could actually feel the individual cells of my body expanding their withered, semipermeable plasma membranes in joyful appreciation.
I've worked out my whole life. I've done lots of runs for charity--lots of training for those runs--long runs, too; I trained for and completed a marathon (held here in Arizona--but in January), but the thirst I felt that day was definately a different animal. It stayed with me for days--the memory of that feeling, that full-body, parched feeling. Later that week, the kids and I watched the movie, "Holes". Though I've always empathized with strong movie characters, this time I was sure that when I'd seen it years earlier, I'd only thought I could understand how thirsty and hot and dry those kids felt in that desperate desert doom. But now...now I felt like we were kindred spirits. Now I felt I knew exactly how thirsty they really were!
Or so I told myself.
Hooray for water!
Hooray for Michigan's abundance of it!
Hooray for Arizona (for teaching me a much deeper appreciation for it)!
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