Maple

Today, October 7, 2008

I'm sitting here watching Dancing With the Stars, waiting for Kent to bring me my nightly bowl of peaches and ice cream, and my thoughts are turned to Maple Mountain (or Maple as we natives call it). Maple is the first thing I see each morning when I close the bathroom window and it's my welcome home each night. Most people watch the sunset in the west, but I love to watch the sun set on Maple--bright yellow in the spring and early summer, gold in late summer and fall, and carnation pink in the winter. Maple anchors my soul.

April 23, 2007

The Spanish explorers Fathers Dominguez and Escalante admired Maple, naming it "Sierra Bonita" about the time of the Revolutionary War. I can't help but think that the Spanish Padres stood on our five acres when they passed through here. A mile or two north or south of our house, and Maple loses its breath-taking symmetry. A mile east, and you're on the mountain, and a mile or so west and the view is not quite as awe-inspiring. Although it changes from season to season, Maple is always perfect here and now.

June 5, 2008 (Kent's Birthday)

Unlike the rest of the family, I've never climbed to the top of Maple, but I love the view from our porch. Maybe that's why we can't bring ourselves to sell even one of our five acres. Money can't buy happiness, but it can buy a great view.

September 6, 2008

So in honor of my favorite mountain, I give you a somewhat shaky version of the Mapleton song (picture a 100 third graders standing on the stage of Mapleton Elementary singing their hearts out):

Mapleton's my town
Mapleton's for me
Here is the place to be
In the shadow of the mountain,
I'm content to spend my days
The atmosphere for living here
Could win a poet's praise.
I love the people
They're my folks and friends
I am bound to them in love and loyalty (hold the last note on this line)
Oh the orchards here are blessed
With the most of heaven's best (this line can't be right)
And it all adds up to home sweet home to me.

I made up a few words, but I don' t think it matters. It's just the kind of sappy poem we snobby English majors love to make fun of. But somehow I'm misting up . . . .