by Nancy McDaniel
Back on the beautiful beach on Florida’s Gulf Coast, I walked. And thought. And thought. And walked some more. It’s quite lovely here and I am bored out of my mind. The city girl in me rebels against resort-ism. The wilderness girl in me rebels against the over-the-top trappings of extreme affluenza. So, as usual, my mind raced and raised questions I hadn’t thought about in a long time. If ever.
by Nancy McDaniel
Gabriel Garcia Marquez wrote of “the restorative idleness of solitude” in his excruciatingly beautiful novel, Love in the Time of Cholera. I was profoundly struck by the poignancy of those words. How beautifully, if incongruously, they flowed. However, it was more personally important to me, how apt they were in describing a certain phase of my life.
by Nancy McDaniel
How many of us are fortunate enough in our lives to meet someone who has been a true hero of ours? Not a known hero such as a parent who selflessly raised us safely and successfully. Not an unknown but “everyday” hero such as a firefighter who risks his or her life everyday to protect us, but a larger-than-life hero whose books are twinkling stars of words that light up the pages and whose accomplishments in the natural world make life better for all of us. Even for those of us who don’t even realize it.
by Nancy McDaniel
An important thing to know about me is that, as a child growing up in the suburbs, I was a “dog person.” And nearly everyone I knew was also a dog person. “Cat people” were different; I didn’t play with them (neither the people nor their cats). Actually, I thought I hated cats. That seemed to be the politically correct opinion to hold in my homogeneous, affluent suburb. It may well have even been a question on the mortgage applications for houses in 60’s Hinsdale:
by Nancy McDaniel
There I was, a city girl disguised as a hiker in the mountains of Colorado. I pretty much looked the part, even if my backpack was spanking clean and newly purchased from Target (but it is called Cherokee and is khaki color so it seems pretty authentic. Sort of). But the hiking boots were well worn and well traveled – broken in from trips to Western Australia, Botswana, Uganda and I don’t remember where else. With burrs still stuck in the laces even after many washings. They even used to have bird guano from Tanzania’s Lake Eyasi too, but that finally and thankfully washed out.
Continue reading → Hiker Chick & The Mount of the Holy Cross
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