Grand Targhee 2013 / My Wintery Romeo

I feel I should recap Targhee 2013 in an ode...as it is, I am not talented nor educated enough to do so. Enjoy this post.

Targhee 2012

What can I say? Some feelings are so strong you can't do them justice through words. But... I'm going to try to convey some of what I feel for this magical, otherworldly, and alluring place in words; if you can comprehend even 25% of my feelings for Targhee, then I have done well. Or you have done well. Or we have both done well... Teamwork!

Not many lifts (only four) but lots of snow... I have long held the belief that Grand Targhee is underrated. To me, Targhee is perfection: the snow is always light, pure, and plentiful, and lines? Lines are unheard of! The cold is refreshing, and when the sun comes out, it's enough to make me cry because I feel so alive and so happy. My talk is cheap, but well, adoration is the thing that really showcases that. I was skiing by myself for the last couple of runs on the second day, Tuesday, when I heard the call of a very grateful skier/boarder: "Thank you Jesus! Thank you!" In light of the day I had experienced, I couldn't agree more. During the following run, I was halfway down the mountain when I burst into laughter; with Brandi Carlile playing, the snow cushioning my every turn and floating up around my waist, the wind singing in my ears, the Sacajawea cliffs across from me, and knowing there were so many happy people on the mountain, I couldn't help it; Targhee is shamanistic.

Sometimes the sky's blue, but more often the quiet grey sky reigns. I love the pines, too.

But backing up...to several different days... As long as I can remember, my Targhee mornings have been spent on the Blackfoot lift. It's the leftmost lift at Grand Targhee, an old lift that seats in twos, and I love it, not just because of the lift itself - which I find enchanting - but because of the terrain it gives access to. Lost Warrior at 9am after a big storm? Absolutely nothing like it in the entire world, pole to pole and back again, just for good measure. I'm not sure why I started beginning my ski days on Blackfoot, but the choice has never let me down, so I keep drifting back for more. The miraculous thing is that you can go back for a last couple of runs in the afternoon and if you stay close to the boundary, you can find powder that has somehow, somehow remained untouched.

After lunch I usually ski on Dreamcatcher and Sacajawea for the rest of the day. Lightning Trees, anyone? Sac has a prime line of cliffs that have a height for everyone and that are beautiful from any angle; I've had the pleasure of jumping off of them many a time and falling off a few times as well.

This year was even more special because my Grandma and Grandpa Asay came with us. Skiing and talking with them was incredibly enjoyable and I only wish that they had come with us before, especially because they inspired our Targhee tradition with their own. I enjoyed getting a refresher on pitch, a card game and a family tradition that is taken very seriously, with my grandparents and my mom. Despite the fact that I had only played twice before and that that was three years ago, I played pretty well; Grandpa and I won *fist bump* and we didn't cheat; now to become a real Asay...

Dinner at Teton Thai; Isaac and I were there, I promise.

I met an older man on the lift Tuesday and we talked about a lot of things, but one thing I mentioned is that it was originally my grandparents who came up to Grand Targhee every year with their own family. Part of his response was, "This place gets in your blood!" The wizened local later added, "I bet you'll be coming here every year 30 years from now." Gosh, I hope that no matter where I live 30 years from now that I will return to Targhee every year! I've got Wyoming blood in me, for heaven sakes; where would I rather be every January?

I could go on forever about Targhee, about how Tuesday was a Magnetic Fields-dominated day, with guest appearances from Paul Simon among others, while Monday was a more even mix; surely Teton Thai, Tony's and the ski videos they play there, the frosted trees on the slopes, the muffins my mom bakes for the trip, the seemingly endless stretch of pine forest behind the Sioux lodge, Shannon (the ski instructor that Lily didn't like), ski bums, King Arthur, and the Murphy bed would all be mentioned and discussed with a measure of depth that would hover between an "unbearably long explanation" and "too short to truly explain anything". But this is more than enough for any soul to read... Yeah.

So go ski! Or rather, go enjoy nature; it's lovely, refreshing, and it's all around, so you won't have to look very hard. I'd put in another word for Targhee, but I guess I'm hoping to selfishly guard his secrets from everyone but myself. I'm a jealous skier, what can I say?

Your bonny by-standing blogger,
Scout

     

      Targhee 2013, to be followed by Targhee 2014

           

A Tree Grows In Salt Lake

A new novel by Scout Asay

Yeah right, but the title works for my post. And I do like A Tree Grows In Brooklyn. Read it.

Oh beware, all ends of the Earth, for I am training my sister to walk in my footsteps, and mostly by example. "Oh dear," cry the critics and hand-wringers, "whatever can she mean?" Let me tell you, critics and hand-wringers, let me tell you. 

As you may (or may not) know, I love to read. I love books, poetry, plays, musicals, good film adaptions, authors, writers, characters, symbols, recurring themes, archetypes, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. (Did you get the reference?) I often find it hard to express this love of mine for various reasons, for example, most are not well read enough to engage in an entertaining conversation about, oh, say the influence of the Bible on novels. Another issue is that I sometimes have so much I want to express that I try to communicate it all at once and consequently the listener receives none of the intended messages. However, the greatest barrier I face is that most people just don't care, which doesn't bother me; we all have our specific interests and pursuits, and mine are most likely not theirs. It is understandable that most people do not care about the limits of human justice in The Count of Monte Cristo or that they don't want to hear about Nathaniel Hawthorne's wife and her effect on his literary works. Most people don't find Elizabeth Gaskell and her use of dialect as fascinating as I do, nor do they care that An American Tragedy is based on a true story and that The Odyssey is a lesson on the importance of hospitality and manners. Don't even get me started on E.M. Forster! Point is, I don't have many chances to gush about these passions of mine; maybe in language arts a few times a week, or when one of my friends patiently endures a rambling, fervent lecture on the life of Harper Lee, or if my mother has a moment to spare. Not many chances. :)

Being the kind of girl I am, I did (yes, did) nothing about this "predicament". Well, nothing until the opportunity smacked me in the face - literally. One summer evening my sister was playing in my room to avoid her other sister, and I asked her to get me such-and-such book off my shelf, and as she turned around with the book she hit me in the nose with it. After momentarily wallowing in my own suffering, I took the book (collection of Shakespeare plays), thanked her, and began to read an analysis of A Midsummer Night's Dream. Now, my sister is a very inquisitive little girl, akin to Curious George, and therefore she asked a multitude of questions: "What are you reading?" What's it about?" "Why doesn't she like him?" "Why does her dad like him?" "Does she really like him? ...Gross." "Where do the fairies live?" "So he's really a person but he gets turned into a donkey?" I ended up drawing a character map and giving her the whole story by way of synopsis, memorized monologue, and dialogue excerpts. I filled her in on some Shakespeare-language and let her toss Shakespearean (I know that's not a word, but I'm using it regardless) insults my way. I enjoyed myself immensely, and her education didn't end there - oh no.

Shakespeare books help immensely, especially this one. (Because it has pictures.)

You can't read just one Shakespeare play, it's simply impossible. By choice or by force you will read another, and another, and another... You might end up reading all of them. Well, Lily has read As You Like It, Hamlet, King Lear, The Merry Wives of Windsor, A Midsummer Night's Dream, Much Ado About Nothing, The Tempest, Two Gentlemen of Verona, and Twelfth Night. That makes nine, and she's seven years old. I could have just backed off and said my work is done, but I didn't want to: I saw opportunity. So what? So I invited her to watch period dramas with me, and asked her what she was reading and had her explain her books and the characters. I even made motions to introduce her to Charles Dickens through the film adaptions of Oliver Twist, David Copperfield, and Our Mutual Friend. You might say that seven is too young to be exposed to Charles Dickens, but if I'm not mistaken, Mozart started composing before he was seven. I'm not trying to make a prodigy out of my sister, I just want to have someone who, in a few years, I can share some passions with. It's a noble endeavor in my opinion, and I am confident that she will prove to be a true champion of literature and an enjoyable person to be around. Not that she isn't already, but... *Sherlock's we-know-what-is-going-on face*

There are still so many authors, writers, poets, and playwrights to introduce her to... Maybe my next project will be introducing her to Austen... Too bad she's too old for this darling picture book:

Although I guarantee I'll be using this web when we get to Pride and Prejudice.

Much love,

Scout

The Implied Leisure of Winter Break

I had a wonderful little post lined up at the end of last week. However, as it turned out, I made a mistake not unfamiliar to myself: I did not save it and so it simply disappeared after some time. It really was a bit upsetting, as it seemed to be a very honest set of paragraphs. Alas, you will never see it as I didn't have the faintest desire to retype it. And surely, any word which one does not have the desire to repeat should not be repeated. Take your own hesitance as a sign.

Well then! That was enough of an intro, yes? Yes, so I'll dive right in. Howards End, A Passage to India, A Room With a View, etc, are lovely, lovely books! How I adore E.M. Forster, for he had such a way with not just words, not just ideas, but with both. He was obsessed with human nature and human values, intertwining ethical values with romance, moral issues with hypocrisy and sympathies beyond mosts' imaginations, although "obsessed" makes him sound possessive; perhaps infatuated or smitten are closer titles to what it really was. His writings seem so wry and well-plotted, and through his very human characters I can sense a very human man merely trying to express humanity in words. Glorious, glorious humanity!, yearning to know, searching to learn, eager to fill the holes they feel in their existence! Do I sound very much like the Doctor? I have been watching a bit of that this week; older episodes, the first season with David Tennant. As a side note, it is a marvelous show. Anyway, I watched A Room With A View this last week, and as the opening credits started, I fell in love - again. I have seen it before (many times, in fact, since my mother first introduced me to it); the film was my first meeting with E.M. Forster, and I have not stopped meeting him since. I do like A Room With A View best... Of yet, at least. It's the most optimistic of his novels, and I feel I can identify with several of the characters, which makes it all the more interesting. The film was well-crafted in the book's image, and they did strive to stay true to the novel. Plus it was Helena Bonham Carter's first film and Maggie Smith  and Judi Dench are in it, not to mention Denholm Elliott. I LOVE Maggie Smith and Judi Dench, and when they conspire together, they are ten times better. Oh! Mr. Emerson crying in his passion (which I admire so very much), "I don't care what I see outside, my vision is within! Here is where the birds sing! Here is where the sky is blue!"and Mr. George Emerson giving his creed, the "Eternal Yes"... How I love spirit!

Of course, these passions of mine for E.M. Forster and humanity coincide with my passions for culture, literature, the English countryside, Jane Austen, the times, etc. Sometimes I do admire their leisurely way of life greatly, and go so far as to wish it upon myself. But that would never do; I'd be too restless, too... Useless, to put it frankly. E.M. Forster's appeal of "only connect" isn't one of leisure, in any event. Or, it's not something leisure alone can support...human connections, relationships...they require effort; labor, industry.

I suppose I am concentrating far too much on leisure, but really, I do like to be at my leisure! Not to say that I don't like work, but they have their separate times and places, and I have enjoyed my winter break to the utmost, what with social engagements, dinners, films, reading, poetry, and quiet walks. It really has been most wonderful. It has reminded me that leisurely activity is attainable, though after hard work. It has reminded that school is the time for learning, and after school is the time for hard, hard work, and if I finish it all up, then I can do something of actual enjoyment. Unfortunately, these moments are rare, and I feel them getting progressively rarer. Is that even a word? Yes, of course... Dandy! Time to go do things that my teachers think are important, though I wish I could just read. 

Forever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever yours,
Scout

P.S. You're welcome (for the obnoxious adieu). 

A Christmas Huzzah

Let me explain.

The Christmas season starts (for the Asay household) on the first Wednesday of December every year without fail. Why? Because that's when the Live Nativity is. "What?" Yes, a LIVE nativity: there is a Bethlehem, a stable, lots of adorable animals, three wisemen, many shepherds, a star, and, most importantly, a holy family. The event is put on jointly by multiple Christian churches and is always a big hit: the last few years (this year was the 9th year) we've received over 5,000 visitors in the space of three hours. I myself have participated in the nativity for several years and I love it - it's a time and place  for me to serve others and reflect in peace. The Live Nativity is a fabulous way to begin the holiday festivities, especially because it starts the season by allowing one to remember why we really celebrate Christmas. When you see that sweet, tiny baby lying in the manger or being held by one of its gentle parents, your heart melts no matter your religious affiliations or beliefs. The humanity of the scene appeals universally. 

After that big gateway night, the order of events depends, but this year it has been: A Christmas Carol (to see Jayne and Abbie), brunch at Sundance (with the Srivastavas, as always - same family, different last name), dinner downtown (with three younger sisters?), and the Nutcracker (to see a darling buffoon who triples as a "baby mouse" and my sister). 

With Abbie after her wonderful performance at the Hale in Orem.

Me with two of my sisters at Sundance brunch, Izzy and Gret.

Ikey and me at dinner - the three little sisters were too busy coloring fish.

Mazza and me (and the rest of the fam damily) visited Temple Square after dinner. 

There's still so much more to do! I need to finish making my advent calendar, bake Christmas cookies to deliver, watch all the traditional Christmas films, build my gingerbread house, attend all the Christmas parties, listen to a choir, go to Midnight Mass, etc. 

I must say, I do love December. I don't enjoy most holidays, but Christmas is different - it's magic. Even school is different; it's all exams or parties... 

We made snowflakes in two of my classes today. Some were more successful than others... 

I'll have to give you another Christmas update, but for now, adieu! I'm exhausted... Though not for long, as that's simply not allowed. Try to enjoy the cheer and cold as much as I do!

Many warm wishes,

Scout 

L'incorrect Romantique Langue

First off, for all you French-speakers, I hope I translated the title right. It was supposed to read, The Wrong Romance Language. But I take Spanish, so it's more likely than not that I botched the title's translation. I apologize... Bear with me.


Among my list of regrets, I sometimes wish I had opted for French rather than Spanish back in seventh grade when, for the first time, I was given the chance to take a language in school. It is common for people to have regrets, but not quite as common to regret which language you took in those youthful school days... Right? And yet, I find myself from time to time speculating on how life would be different if I had taken French instead of Spanish. 

For example, if I had taken French, I could speak to all those cool French-speaking people I know. In French. A lot of these "cool people" happen to be teachers. THAT says a lot about me... How nauseating. But still, I stand by my statement. As a follow-up, here's an illustrative scenario: my dad, being the lovely man he is, went to parent-teacher conferences, and one of the teachers he met with was my language arts teacher, Dr. Schroeter, a fluctuating and ebullient French woman. There was no fluctuation once she discovered that my dad speaks French. In fact, my dad sent me the following texts:

"Spoke in French the whole meeting with Schroeter. I love her."

"She was telling me how much she'd prefer to tango in Argentina than to live among cold Anglos."

Well, isn't that just dandy. Maybe I would've known all these interesting things about Schroeter if I could speak French. But no, I had to learn it secondhand! (I should add that I appreciated learning that piece about her regardless, and it did not actually make me that upset, rather, I am simply trying to make a point here.) I feel left out when people mumble things in French because I can't decipher a thing from their discourse. Strangely, I usually only feel isolated when it's French, not German, Arabic, Chinese, etc. I think I just have problems with French. (And Spanish, but that's a different story.)

And then there's the fact that if I had taken French, I could practice with the people with whom I live: my parents. How much simpler it would have been than calling a relative on the telephone every week for a little practice! I could quickly and easily get help on assignments and with practice. I could also speak French to my parents when I didn't want my siblings to understand what was going on: 

"Ce soir après que les filles vont au lit, nous devrions recevoir la montre un film." "Cela semble bon."

And there you have it! (Or something like that... Because I don't speak French, I just translated phrases on the Internet; if the translation is wrong, I cannot and will not take any blame. Muhaha.) French would have been a good addition to my life, and no one can deny that it is an engaging language, too. But then, the reason I chose Spanish in the first place was because of its appealing pertinence...and I have liked Spanish...as a whole. I could always start French in addition to my Spanish; it's not a lost opportunity, it's a waiting one. And... I guess, that in the end if I had taken French, it could have quite easily ended up like this:

“In Paris they just simply opened their eyes and stared when we spoke to them in French! We never did succeed in making those idiots understand their own language.” -Mark Twain

And, well, that would be an uncomfortable situation no matter what language you spoke. Goodbye for now - or, as my mother would say, "bah-bye". 

Have a nice day,
Scout

I Have A Stick Up My Nose: A Post-Thanksgiving Rant About The Surgery

The joys of nasal surgery are endless. Obviously. Why else would I write about it while still hyped up on whatever they call these painkillers and with splints in my nose? LOLZ. 

Ok, so maybe nasal surgery is horrid. Or, at least, maybe the little arrow on the little meter is closer to un-enjoyable than it is to enjoyable. Maybe it's dismal sitting here officially missing at least two of my nine senses - taste and smell - and missing all mental acuteness. Maybe I’m tired of swabbing the inside of my nose with Neosporin every two hours. Maybe I drank more water in the last 72 hours than I usually do in a year. Maybe I didn’t appreciate waking up because of the pain at 3am the night before last, looking at the clock and thinking, “oh boy, in an hour I can take another painkiller!” Maybe I just don’t like the “foggy” feeling I’ve had, and maybe I’m tired of being so congested.

Ok, fine! I admit it! It is depressing being surrounded by holiday scents that I can't catch a whiff of; yes, it is depressing that every time I eat a bite of something I know is delicious, like homemade bread with my favorite jam or one of Dadi's dishes, I can't taste it. At all. WHAT IS THE POINT OF EATING IF YOU CAN'T TASTE WHAT YOU ARE PUTTING IN YOUR MOUTH?! Now, I understand that there are redemptive qualities to eating, like, oh, being healthy, staying alive, yaddah yaddah. But can you honestly tell me that you like eating squash and liver more than Café Rio and chocolate? No! If you do, you are lying... You liar. 

I guess I had forgotten what surgery was like; the last time I had surgery, I was in kindergarten, and I don't have the best memory. But had I remembered, I don't think I would have been any more prepared for the last few days.

It was a strange Thanksgiving, to say the least. I’ll spare you the time by continuing for as short a time as possible. If you really want to know, we can have a heart-to-heart discussion later, when there are no lingering delusions and I’m not feeling quite so impatient. There’s a lot of material for me to work with… Shall we begin somewhere near the start, with Sleepless In Seattle? Or perchance you would like to hear about my awakening from general anesthesia…complete with political ice cream and a 5 o'clock shadow. Or would you prefer I start at the very beginning, with Monday, and steam all the way through the week? One way or another, it’s hours of story telling, and I simply don’t have the patience to type it out here and let it explain itself.

I know that by the end of next week I’ll be able to smell freely for the first time in my life and I will have regained my sense of smell, and I’m sure I’ll feel much less congested than ever before, but until then, feel my wrath! In truth, the pain hasn’t been great and the week went by remarkably fast, so I can’t complain, but still… This week! On Monday I’ll get the splints taken out of my nose and I’ll be free! Free to smell and breath and move as I please! Until then… I’ll sleep. 

Do not wake me,
Scout

Finite Disappointment vs Infinite Hope

"We must accept finite disappointment, but never lose infinite hope." -Martin Luther King, Jr.

I find this quote to be applicable to my current situation in life, with so many dear friends having moved away, the third (but basically the first) surgery of my life at my door, tedious schoolwork, extra curricular drama, braces (that appear to be in my mouth to stay), shots every week, and my adoptive family moving to Australia contributing to my discomfort and loneliness. The last two months have been a rude awakening for me that have really challenged me in a variety of ways, but the miraculous thing is that I am still, overall, happy. I'm HAPPY. Good things, if little, keep happening. For example, I was at church today and lo and behold, my old home teacher walked in (he lives in Missouri now). It was such an unexpected blessing to see him there, and one of many.

Another unexpected blessing was my friend, John Little (aka Johnny Boy), who lives in Andover, Massachusetts, reminded me that he was coming back to Utah for Thanksgiving Break. Of course, he had told me previously that he was, but sometimes I have the memory of a traumatized 90-year-old woman, so I had blanked. Thank goodness for his reminder:

I'm baaaack! Let's hang out!

I read that text and felt such overwhelming gratitude - and utter excitement - that my friend was in Utah and wanted to get together. Friendship is such a marvelous thing, really; it's a wonder that some people don't embrace it!

Yet another example was just this evening when we had some family friends over for dinner: the children went down into our basement to play after dinner, and some time later, their seven-and-a-half-year-old daughter Presley came upstairs whimpering and clutching at her head with her hand, which was covered in blood. (A brief side note: realize that none of the kids in our family have ever broken a bone, had stitches, or had any surgeries, either... This whole "people can get seriously injured while playing" never really resonated with us.) No one panicked, but we acted fast because we did what we've done for years: we ran to fetch "the Doctor". Now you might be thinking, "what, Doctor Who?", but no, not that doctor (who is awesome and has a great television show, but alas, no); Doctor Raj, our long-time neighbor, best friend, most trusted emergency doctor, and the patriarch of my adoptive family. THAT doctor. Sure enough, he came right over and took care of the whole thing just like he's done for years, and in that moment I was reminded just what wonderful friends the Srivastavas are...not that it's easy to forget.

Rewind to yesterday when my mom told me that the Srivastavas were moving away for six months come July to Australia. SIX MONTHS! The very tyranny of existence just seemed to be too much. It knocked me senseless... Australia... Six months... Tyranny... It was all a horrid blur. I mean, bleeping Australia; no one REALLY likes them, they just PRETEND to. I overreacted a bit; I considered going to the mountains of east-central Asia to live for six months in simplicity, then Punjab, then the Lake District, then Maine. How going anywhere other than Australia would solve my problem, I'm not sure, but the imagination is rapid and mysterious, and sometimes illogical. I spent the rest of yesterday and this morning and afternoon brooding my losses, sulking away as the hours ticked by. It all changed when one of the people I was to lose for six months came over and just did his thing. I realized that I was 1) overreacting, 2) being selfish and pitying myself waaaaaay too much, 3) missing the point, and 4) grateful for the people I had come to love so fiercely. I also remembered that they were going to be gone for less than a year and that they weren't even leaving for more than seven months, and all this made me feel much, much better.

Beyond these specific examples, there have been so many more little things recently that have given me a strong testimony of the strength of hope, whether it was seeing the Roberts at Bonneville's Shakespeare play, the heavy primary snows, or Jane Austen. Hope, as I have realized recently, is more than "cherishing a desire with anticipation" (thank you Merriam-Webster); it's knowing that everything can and will be alright in the end because if it's not alright, it's simply not the end. You just have to wait and see how you'll end up getting from point A to point B, and sometimes it will surprise you.

The scriptures give a perfect message pertaining to my thoughts in 2nd Nephi chapter 31 verse 20: "Wherefore ye must press forward with a steadfastness in Christ, having a perfect brightness of hope, and a love of God and of all men. Wherefore, if ye shall press forward, feasting upon the word of Christ, and endure to the end, behold, thus saith the Father: Ye shall have eternal life." While eternal life might sound a little, well, tedious right now, the principle that it's all ok in the end is extremely comforting to me and a lot of other people. It inspires me to be grateful for every good and bad thing along the journey of life, which sounds cheesy, but it's TRUE! Life is all about progress and what you become, and so what's more important: your momentary sacrifice or your glorious, lasting hope? Just a thought, I guess, but I know that when I remind myself of where my priorities lie, it gets me through the day, with a smile on my face!

I suppose this is my ante-Thanksgiving Thanksgiving huzzah, so let me implore you to really enjoy this Thanksgiving and to give heartfelt thanks for all the little things (and the big things) that touch your life everyday, because I'm sure there are as many in your life as there are in mine. I'm sure. :)