We all struggle with having to take time out of our lives when we’d rather be doing something else.
We’ve all been warned about what’s in the fine print when it comes to contracts. I’m reckoning with this fact in the wake of a power outage and resulting electrical surge that caused several thousand dollars worth of damage to the solar power generating system on my house.
Who is Gabe Woytek? Aside from being the newest member of the Grand County Council, I don’t know much about this person. I’m sure he’s a great guy, having served as a VISTA volunteer in Moab and then moved on to work for the nonprofit Youth Garden Project organization, both of which exist due to public funds and private donations.
The only decorative plants that grow with much gusto in my yard are some tall, fountain-type grasses that have managed to spread wherever they can find an emitter on the drip system.
Those of us who live with modern conveniences (most of us) often find ourselves at the mercy of utility companies.
My mom has endured a long slog since she suffered a stroke in early October and was life-flighted to Salt Lake City. She has been worked over pretty thoroughly by the University of Utah Hospital, with a first stop in intensive care, then on to rehab. But last week, Adrien told her various medical specialists that she’d had enough of their needling, and that she wanted, in no uncertain terms, to come home.
There have been no visitors to my hummingbird feeder for more than a week, so I’m pretty sure the winged marvels have blown away to warmer climes. Recent winds have been enough to make any bird skedaddle out of here.
The Grand County Council’s dual meetings last week were a clear display of vote manipulation, no matter how one feels about the measure to ban new nightly rental developments.
“You have some golden rain in your hair,” I told my mom Tuesday after she’d come in from Center Street. I plucked a small yellow blossom from her head and flicked it away. It’s that time of year when the trees that line downtown streets put forth millions of small flowers, making a lemony carpet on sidewalks, inside your car if you leave the windows down, and even on your pate if you linger long on the sidewalks.
On more than one recent occasion, I’ve stolen into my mom’s garden to steal some of my favorite flowers. Like all the special blooms on my list, these blossom just once a year, so I try to savor their unique beauty and scent, knowing I can’t enjoy them again for another full cycle of the calendar.
It’s hard to not be a little bitter. To feel a little used. To have “professionals” from the big city come on down to little old Moab and help us deal with our problems, only to have them leave because our style doesn’t fit their lives. To have them leave when they really had no intention of staying. To have them leave after they’ve jacked up salary levels that are beyond prudent budgets and could be spent on more meaningful things than inflated payrolls.
A couple of times last week in casual conversation, the topic came up. “What did you do last weekend?” I asked friends. “Well, we got the leaves raked and the lawn mowed and cleaned up,” various folks replied.