Guest Post: The Iditarod

Many of you may or may not know about the GREATEST SPORT IN HISTORY! If you said football, no, if you said soccer, no, if you said volleyball, NO!

DOG MUSHING!

Every year, there is a race called Iditarod, named after a place in Alaska: This ghost town, once a bustling community of over 10,000, was the heart of the Iditarod Mining District, from whence the trail got its name. Dog teams hauled supplies and mail into this area and were laden with gold for their return trip out. Between 1908 and 1925, about $35 million in gold was taken from this area.

Anyhow, the Iditarod is a great race that is 1,012 miles long. A fun fact is that the trail changes depending on if the year is an odd number or an even number. They took the South Route since its 2013. The top five mushers who won were:

Mitch Seavey

Aliy Zirkle

Jeff King

Dallas Seavey

Ray Redington Jr.

The sport is really terrific and I hope it never disappears, it is truly something that I am determined to do or at least watch when I grow up and get some $$$$$$$$$$. (If you’d like to donate, just call Rose and she’ll give you my address and you can make a face-to-face donate, but don’t give the money to Rose, she hangs around with rats!) The Iditarod is officially over when the Red Lantern, or Widow Lantern, is turned off by the last musher to come in. That musher was Christine Roalofs. It is a beautiful thing, seeing a team of eleven to fifteen dogs pull into Nome, Alaska.

They jump in joy at seeing people, they wag their tails in happiness, and some fall over on their side to get their paws checked or because they’re exhausted.

It is beautiful when the musher scratches because they lose a dog and cannot find them. (this actually happened)

It is beautiful when the musher does not really care about winning, but about their precious dogs.

It is beautiful when I see videos of the dogs resting under a beautiful purple or yellow sky, or perhaps under low gray clouds, but at least their musher rests them.

It is a marvelous sport and I hope you all enjoyed my blog post.

P.S: If you’d like to learn more about the racers, go to this site:
http://iditarod.com/

Black Diamond Defiance

I stood poised on the edge of the icy slope, my ski tips jutting out over the headwall.  The wind came speeding up the hill with the force of a freight train and almost knocked me down.  Leaning into it, I shouted my defiance to the skies. I would not be held back!  With a powerful push, I started over the hill and down the black diamond ski slope.  The incline was steep and the barreling wind had blown the fresh snow into large chunks, so that I skied from thick powder onto icy stretches with every swish of my blades.  I felt off-balance from the start.  As I made my way down the hill in twists and turns, I could feel the wind tugging relentlessly at my body.  Wind, gravity, my wiry frame… and an icy patch.  I tilted suddenly on my skies, unable to stop my sideways momentum.  As my speed carried me closer to the edge of the slope, I knew I wasn’t in control of my skis any longer.  Sit down, Rose!  My thoughts were crystal clear and adrenaline rushed through my veins.  You need to stop yourself.  I let myself fall to the side closest to the steeply canted slope.  The thump rattled my already-frail bones as I landed on my bottom.  For a second, I thought a clump of snow had obscured my vision on the left side of my goggles.  I reached up to brush it away but pulled my glove back without any improvement.  As I sat there on the side of the slope and blinked a few times, I realized what had happened.  My left contact had been knocked out in my fall!

This wasn’t good.  I could actually see my contact, resting right below my lower lashes on the top of my cheekbone, but I had no idea how I was going to get it back into my eye!  The wind was merciless as it screamed up the slope and around me.  I could feel it buffeting my good, warm Columbia snow jacket even as I sat.  And not only did I have the gale-force winds to deal with, my fingers were freezing cold.  I told myself to relax.  I could do this. I had to do this.  After 15 years, putting in a contact was second nature to me… when I was standing in a bathroom with no breeze and warm, functioning fingers, that is!  I took off my gloves and sat on them so they wouldn’t blow away.  My fingers were cramped and red.  In a swift motion, I pulled my goggles up and plucked my contact from my cheek.  For one split second, I had it… and then the wind snatched it away.  ”NOOOOO!!!!!!”  I cried out in anguish as my contact blew away into the sky.  ”Come back, please!!!  Nooooo!”

After a few long moments of “Oh my gosh what the heck do I do now?  No seriously what do I do?”, I realized there was no other choice.  I had to ski the rest of this icy, patchy, powdery black diamond slope with no depth perception.

My sight has been awful for years.  I’ve had glasses since fourth grade and contacts since high school.  I am -6.00 in both eyes.  I blame (from least to most) my father’s bad eyesight genes, my distaste for carrots as a child, and years spent reading books by flashlight, by dim light, by flashing-by-streetlamps-in-a-car light…  Point is, I can’t see without help.  And my help had just been snatched away by the Mistral of Montage Mountain.  I saw (from my good eye) my brother hopping into view at the bottom of the slope.  He looked up at me and gestured, obviously wondering if I was okay.  Well, I thought, what else is there to do?  I waved halfheartedly back at him and stood up, making sure my skis were sideways on the slope and the edges dug in.  The last thing I needed was to fall over again and lose my other contact.  I tugged my gloves back on and formed my plan.  Luckily, I was closer to the bottom of the run than the top, but I still had a good two drops left before the end.  My eyes kept trying to focus and it was already annoying me.  I put a hand over my left eye, which helped, and then I laughed dryly.  I couldn’t ski down a black diamond with one hand over my eye.  But I had to.

I pushed off and immediately realized this wasn’t going to be easy.  The snow lay in clumps but my lack of perception left me unsure as to their exact size and shape.  I made it halfway down the first hill and then fell with a thud as my ski tips hit a particularly deep patch of powder.  I couldn’t see the ground well enough to adjust my balance, and it was incredibly frustrating.  I picked myself up, brushed off the snow, and started again.  This time I made  it down to the bottom of the steep slope.  Now there was only the gentler last incline before the blessed relief of the chairlift.  This last hill was surprisingly easy to navigate.  The shallow drop allowed me to ski with less tight maneuvering and I found myself at the bottom without falling again.  I turned around to stare at my nemesis looming behind me.  The black diamond’s slope carved a sharp white line against the trees.  Like an echo of the beginning of my run, I shouted my defiance to the skies.  ”You tried but you COULD NOT STOP ME!!!”

Then I explained my ignominious situation to my brother and Jill, and went to sit in the lodge, drink a soothing hot cocoa, and obsessively refresh Twitter for the last hour of our lift tickets.

Guest Post: Meet Henry

This is a story about a rat…

Throughout my life, my love for animals, especially rodents and dogs (thanks Rose), has grown more than I can measure. My rodent love started with Robert, or Bob, the rat. His bully personality and his brown head and brown stripe really did charm me, as did Merv and his white belly. Next it was Willy, the albino, and many more months later it was Freddy, the little rascal. His mentor was the diseased Bob, and by mentor I mean Freddy followed Bob around everywhere when they would scurry around Rose’s room and usually, when Bob would fight, so would Freddy. Too bad Merv didn’t have a mentor, because the mentor would’ve been proud of his apprentice, but sadly Merv is not here to meet Freddy and Willy’s new cage-mate, Henry!?!?!?!

Another rat’s personality to learn, another small body scurrying up my arm, (hope his claws aren’t as sharp as Freddy’s) and alas, another rat to be made fun of. Look at that adorable face!  Look at those long whiskers, those small but cute eyes, those cute ears and small legs and body, aren’t they so awesome? Yet they are called creepy and strange.  I say, NO!  Welcome this new rat and the old ones, even the dead ones, into your heart!  If I may say so:

WELCOME, HENRY!

- Genevieve

‘He Has Become All Things’

This reflection by Caryll Houselander was in my Magnificat a few days ago.

“As to your Lent … I can only tell you my own experience.  A mass of good resolutions, I think, are apt to end up in disappointment and to make one depressed.  Also direct fault-uprooting:  it makes one concentrate too much on self and that can be so depressing.  The only resolution I have ever found works is: “Whenever I want to think of myself, I will think of God.”  

Now, this does not mean, “I will make a long meditation on God,” but just some short sharp answer, so to speak, to my thought of self, in God.
For example: ”I am lonely, misunderstood, etc.”  ”The loneliness of Christ at his trial; the misunderstanding even of his closest friends.” 

Or: ”I have made a fool of myself.”
“Christ mocked — he felt it;  he put the mocking first in foretelling his Passion — ‘The Son of Man shall be mocked, etc.’ — made a fool of, before all whom he loved.”

Or: ”I can’t go on, unhelped.”
Christ couldn’t.  He couldn’t carry the cross without help; he was grateful for human sympathy — Mary Magdalene — his words on that occasion — other examples as they suggest themselves — just pictures that flash through the mind.” 

This practice becomes a habit and it is the habit which has saved me from despair! …  Different people have different approaches to Christ.  He has become all things — infant, child, man — so that we all can approach him in the way easiest for us.  The best is to use that way to our heart’s content, and not to trouble about any other.”
-Caryll Houselander

Sweetheart

It took me almost two weeks to write this and that seems fitting for my topic.  Mervy, my sweetheart rat, one of our original three rats, died a few days before I went to Mexico.  I know he would have understood my tardiness with this tribute because that’s just how sweet he was.  He died the way he lived, without fuss and without causing me undue pain.  I think he knew he was secretly my favorite rat.  Mervy was always a little smaller than the rest, and he sneezed a lot.  Danny and I called him Sneezles Rat because of it.  In fact, he was the rattie of a thousand nicknames: Sweetheart Rat, Cuddly Rat, Sneezles Rat, Mervytown Rat, Bumbler, Mervster Pervster, White-Bellied Merv, Sweet-faced Merv, Sewer Rat, Ambassador Rat.  Mervy was the rat who won the hearts of even the most hardened rat haters.  Everyone loved him.  That sweet little face would squint up at you until you gave him a treat, and once you saw his delight when munching on a goldfish cracker or a peanut, you’d fall in love too.  You’d have a lot of time to fall in love, because he was also the slowest eater I’ve met since my sister Juliana.  He could nibble away at a peanut for ten minutes.  When we bought Willy, we had already owned Bob and Merv for about a month.  Bob tried to bully Willy, to establish that he was the dominant male in the cage, but Mervy wouldn’t let him.  He blocked Willy from Bob and kept him safe.  Merv was the cuddly rat, the one who liked to snuggle even before he grew older and slower.  He’d hop up to my bed when I was lying there reading, and settle down on my shoulder for a lengthy grooming session.  He had the cutest little move when he groomed himself.  He’d run his little paws from back to front over his ears and down his face to his mouth.  Then he’d lick his paws clean and do it again, quicker than a cat.  I never saw another rat do that.  Even when his tumor began to grow, he was still bumbling around my room and cuddling up in my lap, just hoping for a good ear-rub.  This is a shorter and much less harrowing tribute to write than Bob’s, and that fits Merv’s gentle, simple personality.  I knew he was going to die soon, and I’m so glad Danny and I were able to give him as much love and affection as we could before he slipped away in his sleep.  I know he is with Bob in rattie heaven now, snacking on Cheese-Its and yogies and just being a sweet, lazy rat.

We love you, Papa

As usual, The Anchoress gets my feelings exactly right when talking about Pope Benedict:

“Yes, I am sad. I have loved Benedict XVI; he has been my favorite pope — I loved John Paul, of course, but as I have said before, he was a grand, dramatic pipe organ of a man; he belonged to the whole world and his writings are often so dense I cannot plumb them. Benedict has always been the more accessible tinkling piano, simply inviting one to come closer. His copious writings have been almost avuncular in their gently-voiced but brilliant instruction, and somehow it always felt like he belonged “to me”. I will miss him terribly.”

Yes, exactly.  Pope Benedict was the one whose words helped me delve deeper into the teachings of my Church, to understand that our faith is both deeply intimate and yet still a mystery.  The dear Holy Father’s words on “full, active, and conscious participation” pushed me to really commit myself to learning about Catholicism.  I will miss his gentle shepherd’s presence.

Human

Guest Post by Juliana Schmit

my little boy, the joy of my life

my ambitious two-year-old son

he can walk, speak, and point out a cow

or run away when he hears me say “come”

Be it impatience or gleeful song,

the span of his emotion is clear:

he croons “poor baby” to his crying sister

compassionately drawing her near

he is warmly and vividly flesh and blood

his being thrives with life

I’ve bandaged his bleeding and iced his bruises

and kept his tiny feet covered at night

I’ve seen his eyes, their melty brown light

look wounded when I snap too loud

and I’ve seen them crinkle and shine in wonder

when I hold him and say that I’m proud

he knows he’s a person, a funny one, too

he entertains and adores the spotlight

he knows he’s captured the heart of his father

who rushes home to him each night

Anyone could see the way he grows

in every aspect, every day

but who would look and make the claim

“Boy, your fertilized egg turned out great!”

I’d probably turn and furrow my brow

but before I could even respond

would another exclaim “yes it was nice of you

to let that unviable tissue inside of your womb live on!”

are we looking at the same child, I wonder

could they purposely be so blind

so eager to accept mainstream euphemisms

and dismiss my child with practiced lines?

because this toddler that I’m looking at

is a human now, he always was

there was never a magical day when he changed

from a blob to human flesh and blood

if he started off as merely tissue

not a child, but something dismissable

was there a period of time when the change

took place that made him less discardable?

did it start at his head and work its way down

from blob to boy, he slowly changed

was a third of him a human at one point

and then half of him human the next day?

and was two-thirds of him then human (just not the feet)

was he almost done being a “parasite”?

or did it happen in an instant

with a tiny sparking poof of light

the day the laws made it illegal

for me to “get rid of” him

is that the day my son earned the right

to finally be called “human”?

Others might’ve asked of my unborn son

“but will he have financial opportunity?

because if he’s just going to be one more poor person

we might put his personhood under scrutiny.”  (he might not get that title back!)

Well, he’ll have food and clothes to wear

but if necessities were at risk

his father who is man enough to be a father

would work three jobs to take the brunt of it.

“But if you didn’t know his father,

the child was forced on you, a hurtful burden

surely you would have consented then

that he was a problem and you were undeserving.”

and then I’d hang my head in grief

for women who bear that scar…

but a human created in cruelty and hate

is still a human when it’s torn apart.

My son in his first month, unborn

was human, science cannot deny

and he had the right to be called “human”

even if I’d wanted him to die.

the line of development he’s followed

has never been broken from conception through now

silent and defenseless then

he has become dramatic and loud!

my little boy is running in circles

and jabbering as I type

he knows nothing of “tissue” and “parasite”

and “blob of cells” or pro-choice hype.

I am the only one who carried him

who felt his body growing week by week

and being his mother gives me the unopposable authority

to declare that he was human while he was the weakest of the weak.

everything of intelligence, of study

everything of science, faith and reason

acknowledges that my son who is is my son who was

and he’s always had the right to be called human.

Let’s Call It What It Is: “Human”  by Juliana Schmit