Wyoming weather can be as fickle as anyone might imagine. Two weeks ago, it was nearly 40 below with the wind chill. This morning it is 40 above with a warm breeze and there is water from melting snow running every where: a classic Chinook.
I was out early, taking the dogs on their much anticipated walk. As I leapt the snow bank spanning the rushing water in the gutter, slush splashed everywhere. Across the street I run to honking horns and waves from familiar folks passing by, winging a Frisbee for Jack as I go. The wind suddenly picks up and off through the sky goes the saucer with Jack chasing, up, up and in a sudden arch into a very tall pine tree. Ugh! A dejected little heeler sits down under the tree and looks at me through those eyes that are saying, “Mom, how could you?”
Tossing the ball for Chance to chase while I put together a game plan, I ponder. “Do I go home and get the broom?” “ Is it so high I need the broom and lariat?” (Don’t laugh it works). It seems to be only 12 or 14 feet up. Hmmm. With Jack looking on and Chance returning with his tennis ball, I grab the lowest branch. I can do this I tell myself. Shoot, can’t quite reach the next one, going to have to scramble, not exactly easy with a winter coat, boots and gloves on. “Sure just watch me fall out and break my arm,” I muse. After some scrambling and stretching, I manage to make it up far enough to sit steadily on a big branch. Out, out I reach toward the Frisbee, not quite. One more level to go. By this time, my knit hat is full of pine needles and little branches from fighting my way through the thick tree. “Geez, what I do for you Jack,” I say aloud. Twelve feet below they both turn their heads cockeyed and look at me, “Are you talking to us?” They seem to say.
Up one more level through branches, falling bark and needles I go until I can reach the branch that is holding the turquoise and magenta Flippy Flopper that Jack just got for Christmas. Now you understand why it couldn’t be left in the tree. Shake, shake, shake. “Come I on!” I say. Shake, shake…. Slide, slide. Stuck. Groan. “How long has this been going on?” I wonder in my head. “Am I going to be late taking Aspen for school?” “Can anyone see me?” I am pretty sure they can’t. For this reason, I am glad that pine trees are so thick. Ok on to business! Shake, shake, shake. Slide, bump, stop, slide. I am holding my breath. Free. Out it goes right to Jack waiting below. He is grateful in his own dog way. Now, like a cat that has climbed up then looks where she has gone and doesn’t want to come down, I think about my descent. Embarrassing it would be if I couldn’t get out of the tree. But alas it has never stopped me before. Swinging off the branch I am on, I catch the one below and shimmy my way down, finally dropping the last few feet to the ground. Wiping the bark off my gloves and pulling branches out of my hat, I giggle. “What a way to start the day!”
Off we go!
Monday, January 12, 2009
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Sweet Juxtaposition
The clouds, dark with rain and covering the Wind River’s, had moved in swiftly from the west and were starting to sweep down the valley. As a tractor idled, the sound of an air hose rose above the din, dust was blown out of the baler before it was put away for the winter. The night before the moon had made its ascent into the heavens over the butte as a peculiar fiery red egg shape, waning a little more each evening as the fall equinox approached.
The day had been busy: a concerted effort to beat the weather which had not been kind. A late frost and a cool summer had delayed the growing season and an early frost and rain had made it nearly impossible to get into the fields to windrow. As soon as that task was accomplished, more rain; more waiting and praying. The second cutting was dearly needed. The summer had seemed to be a trial by fire with several accidents, challenge after challenge, but true to the universe’s grace; gifts of warm sunshine and strong willing hands had made it all come together.
My jeans were covered with sawdust, my hair smelled of chain saw exhaust, but the relief of having wood blocked was evident in my mind. It could snow and a warm fire could burn. A little girl with grass stains on her knees squatted, making mud pies for the dogs on the porch as they eagerly watched the process with curious eyes and wagging tongues. The quagmire was a curious mix of mud, sawdust and dried flowers laced with dog food. I couldn’t help but smile in contentment at the whole scene; one of ease and peace with a sprinkle of relief.
Glancing at my watch it was nearly 4 o’ clock: a good time for a little break. As I ground the coffee beans to a fine espresso powder, the prospect of the final product nearly made my mouth water: a perfect unexpected indulgence for everyone. Covered with dust, soot and sweat from the days work, a little shot would surely elicit a smile. As I watched the little silver pot percolate, I marveled at the contrast of the scene. The people: two men I admired -one I had grown up with, the other the love of my life- working on farm equipment, my little girl who was both my twin soul and greatest challenge, and me, full of generations of earthy ranch blood. We were stopping to take an espresso break in the middle of nowhere Wyoming. Without plausible thought, we seemed to pretend that the mix of freshly made bales strung over the field waiting to be picked up was a perfect compliment to an Italian espresso. Sweet juxtaposition.
Learn more about Thea at www.contemporarywesterndesign.com
The day had been busy: a concerted effort to beat the weather which had not been kind. A late frost and a cool summer had delayed the growing season and an early frost and rain had made it nearly impossible to get into the fields to windrow. As soon as that task was accomplished, more rain; more waiting and praying. The second cutting was dearly needed. The summer had seemed to be a trial by fire with several accidents, challenge after challenge, but true to the universe’s grace; gifts of warm sunshine and strong willing hands had made it all come together.
My jeans were covered with sawdust, my hair smelled of chain saw exhaust, but the relief of having wood blocked was evident in my mind. It could snow and a warm fire could burn. A little girl with grass stains on her knees squatted, making mud pies for the dogs on the porch as they eagerly watched the process with curious eyes and wagging tongues. The quagmire was a curious mix of mud, sawdust and dried flowers laced with dog food. I couldn’t help but smile in contentment at the whole scene; one of ease and peace with a sprinkle of relief.
Glancing at my watch it was nearly 4 o’ clock: a good time for a little break. As I ground the coffee beans to a fine espresso powder, the prospect of the final product nearly made my mouth water: a perfect unexpected indulgence for everyone. Covered with dust, soot and sweat from the days work, a little shot would surely elicit a smile. As I watched the little silver pot percolate, I marveled at the contrast of the scene. The people: two men I admired -one I had grown up with, the other the love of my life- working on farm equipment, my little girl who was both my twin soul and greatest challenge, and me, full of generations of earthy ranch blood. We were stopping to take an espresso break in the middle of nowhere Wyoming. Without plausible thought, we seemed to pretend that the mix of freshly made bales strung over the field waiting to be picked up was a perfect compliment to an Italian espresso. Sweet juxtaposition.
Learn more about Thea at www.contemporarywesterndesign.com
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
The Black Baldy and Miss Frou Frou
The brown border’s ears perked and his eyes locked on something as I sat stroking his silky head. My back was to the window so I couldn’t see what was going on. Suddenly a little girl in a pink princess dress and fancy white shoes went flying through the door with four dogs in tow. They were: the self proclaimed king, Jack, an aussie heeler, the flighty border collie/aussie mix who lived to work, the old black lab whose snout was freckled in white named Tar and the new one, a spaniel/beagle mix named Chance. He was found dumped on the rez. To add to the commotion, there was the gentleman of the house standing in the door, "barking" orders with half a piece of homemade pizza in his hand.
I spun around to see what all the excitement was about but didn’t see a thing, only dogs, and pink fluff disappearing around the lilac bushes in the corner of the yard. I could hear all variations of barks from the dogs and high pitched yips from a little girl.
Suddenly, I saw a bald face heifer, her tail in the air jet across the north end of the new seeding. Four dogs, only two that should know what they are doing and one that really did, in full pursuit. The chase team included a little girl in frou- frou running in a jagged formation. The heifer hit the corner and turned to meet her pursuers. I can’t imagine what she might be thinking in her smallish cow brain, it could only be slight terror and ultimate confusion.
With a little wrangling, the dogs and little princess were sent south away from the heifer giving her just enough breathing room to feel her way along the fence and back out through the gate into the neighbors where she had come from.
Dogs came jogging back to the house, victorious. One little girl, net skirts and shoes that were not so white anymore stormed into the house, “Mom, there was a heifer in here, we got her out.”
Ahh, the joy of pure unadulterated accomplishments!
I spun around to see what all the excitement was about but didn’t see a thing, only dogs, and pink fluff disappearing around the lilac bushes in the corner of the yard. I could hear all variations of barks from the dogs and high pitched yips from a little girl.
Suddenly, I saw a bald face heifer, her tail in the air jet across the north end of the new seeding. Four dogs, only two that should know what they are doing and one that really did, in full pursuit. The chase team included a little girl in frou- frou running in a jagged formation. The heifer hit the corner and turned to meet her pursuers. I can’t imagine what she might be thinking in her smallish cow brain, it could only be slight terror and ultimate confusion.
With a little wrangling, the dogs and little princess were sent south away from the heifer giving her just enough breathing room to feel her way along the fence and back out through the gate into the neighbors where she had come from.
Dogs came jogging back to the house, victorious. One little girl, net skirts and shoes that were not so white anymore stormed into the house, “Mom, there was a heifer in here, we got her out.”
Ahh, the joy of pure unadulterated accomplishments!
from the Archives, "On the Eastfork"
Finally, the snow was out of the high country. We could take the horses and hit the trail.
For me, it’s like an itch. I have to scratch it. I get those itches to travel, hike, bike, ride….. I am an itchy person, you might say.
It has been seven months, since I had seen a mountain trail from the back of a horse and believe me there is nothing like it. Talk about feeling free and in charge!
We packed sandwiches in our saddle bags, cameras and bear spray (it is that time of year) and loaded the trailer with horses who hadn’t been ridden in a long time. Drove an hour to the trailhead and piled out giddy with excitement.
All Aspen could say is “Mom are we ready”, “Mom are we ready?!”
The East Fork Valley of the Absaroka Mountains is stunning with its many elevations and varied climates. The floor: high mountain desert, climbing into mountain timber and meadows and then above the tree line to alpine landscape.
We made our way through aspen groves and climbed through the timber to where we could see for miles: Gannett Peak to the south, and a valley of beautiful ranches below.
The smell of pine, aspen and forest floor mixed with that of the horses and saddle leather are some of the most enchanting smells in the world. Especially for one who grew up in their midst and longs to be back ‘in the saddle’ again on every occasion possible.
In a high mountain meadow we stopped for lunch and marveled at our good fortune. Stepping into the wilderness after sitting in front of a computer for days on end is like pouring sparkling water over ice to quench your thirst from being in the desert.
By the time we got home, we were tired, happy and ready to take on whatever the world sent our way.
Mother nature… thank you for the lift.
Originally published on the first contemporarywesterndesign.com website June 2007
For me, it’s like an itch. I have to scratch it. I get those itches to travel, hike, bike, ride….. I am an itchy person, you might say.
It has been seven months, since I had seen a mountain trail from the back of a horse and believe me there is nothing like it. Talk about feeling free and in charge!
We packed sandwiches in our saddle bags, cameras and bear spray (it is that time of year) and loaded the trailer with horses who hadn’t been ridden in a long time. Drove an hour to the trailhead and piled out giddy with excitement.
All Aspen could say is “Mom are we ready”, “Mom are we ready?!”
The East Fork Valley of the Absaroka Mountains is stunning with its many elevations and varied climates. The floor: high mountain desert, climbing into mountain timber and meadows and then above the tree line to alpine landscape.
We made our way through aspen groves and climbed through the timber to where we could see for miles: Gannett Peak to the south, and a valley of beautiful ranches below.
The smell of pine, aspen and forest floor mixed with that of the horses and saddle leather are some of the most enchanting smells in the world. Especially for one who grew up in their midst and longs to be back ‘in the saddle’ again on every occasion possible.
In a high mountain meadow we stopped for lunch and marveled at our good fortune. Stepping into the wilderness after sitting in front of a computer for days on end is like pouring sparkling water over ice to quench your thirst from being in the desert.
By the time we got home, we were tired, happy and ready to take on whatever the world sent our way.
Mother nature… thank you for the lift.
Originally published on the first contemporarywesterndesign.com website June 2007
from the Archives, "Everything is Better with Butter"
Growing up, we were almost totally self- sufficient. We went to town once a month at the most. Otherwise, we grew or raised practically everything we needed right there on the ranch. I remember once a friend offered me a yogurt when I was 10 or 11 and I had no idea what she was talking about. We didn’t drink soft drinks, ate very little candy and rarely ate anything that was not homemade
One of the things I missed most when I went to college was what my dad always called “wild milk:” fresh, unpasteurized, homogenized, straight-from-the-cow milk. I could hardly stand to drink what I bought from the store. For 18 years, we had milked a cow and that meant we had fresh cream, butter, and cottage cheese, too. Not to mention the strongest handshake in the state. I didn’t realize how good I had it.
My mother made bread once a week and I was usually in charge of churning the butter. When the fresh bread came out of the oven, there was a rush for hot bread and butter. Yum!
I’ve always wanted my little girl to experience some of those grassroots things. I think they’re very important. So little of the population even really knows where food comes from or how it is made. In our house we still make everything from scratch, no mixes here!
I’ve been lucky enough to purchase a share in a milk cow and now we have fresh milk. After saving the cream off several gallons, I had enough to churn. Finding the churn was a little bit of a challenge, but one was procured. We went through the ritual of dumping in the cream and letting it rise to room temperature, all the while a little girl was running by giving the handle a quick turn, begging to make butter.
When it was ready, it was ready! Ten minutes later we had a pound and half of beautiful, hand-churned butter ready to be worked, salted and stored.
How good can life get?!
For great information about Real Milk and all of its benefits check out this site www.westonaprice.org
Originally published on the first contemporarywesterndesign.com site June 2007
One of the things I missed most when I went to college was what my dad always called “wild milk:” fresh, unpasteurized, homogenized, straight-from-the-cow milk. I could hardly stand to drink what I bought from the store. For 18 years, we had milked a cow and that meant we had fresh cream, butter, and cottage cheese, too. Not to mention the strongest handshake in the state. I didn’t realize how good I had it.
My mother made bread once a week and I was usually in charge of churning the butter. When the fresh bread came out of the oven, there was a rush for hot bread and butter. Yum!
I’ve always wanted my little girl to experience some of those grassroots things. I think they’re very important. So little of the population even really knows where food comes from or how it is made. In our house we still make everything from scratch, no mixes here!
I’ve been lucky enough to purchase a share in a milk cow and now we have fresh milk. After saving the cream off several gallons, I had enough to churn. Finding the churn was a little bit of a challenge, but one was procured. We went through the ritual of dumping in the cream and letting it rise to room temperature, all the while a little girl was running by giving the handle a quick turn, begging to make butter.
When it was ready, it was ready! Ten minutes later we had a pound and half of beautiful, hand-churned butter ready to be worked, salted and stored.
How good can life get?!
For great information about Real Milk and all of its benefits check out this site www.westonaprice.org
Originally published on the first contemporarywesterndesign.com site June 2007
from the Archives, "Gus-Gus the Goose"
Double Take. Was it real or a wind up toy?
That’s what went through my mind as I watched this tiny little creature intrepidly making its way over the black top of a busy parking lot outside our favorite little restaurant, the Sundance Café, in Dubois, Wyoming.
It was not a wind up, but a little, green-gray gosling fresh out of Horse Creek. Lost? Obviously.
Aspen and I tried to herd it back to the river. Ever tried to herd a goose? Impossible! So I swooped it up, put him in my coat and trooped over to the creek, to its siblings, the goose and gander.
Unfortunately they panicked, and off they went. Into the creek went the gosling, tweeting and twittering for his family as they went in opposite directions: gander upstream, goose and goslings bobbing down stream. He caught the current, but wouldn’t stay in it and back to shore he came. I put him in again, straining to see if the goose had stopped, but she was rounding the bend and quickly out of sight.
I couldn’t just walk away. My heart told me something wasn’t right. The little guy wouldn’t stay in the river. So I watched. Downstream it promptly found the shore, and out it came, fearlessly making its way into a motel parking lot.
That was enough. I couldn’t stand it. I made tracks for him, gathered him up with all the mommy instincts I had and took him home. On the way we discovered it had a blind eye.
We don’t know if it is a boy or girl, but we know that Gus-Gus is safe and sound. Swimming in his pool( a huge iron skillet) in the kitchen, tucked into our shirts and an old wool sock to keep him warm (he was only a day or so old when he was found). He even has a playpen made out of gated pipe in the yard so he can go outside.
Our little lost and found recognizes our voices and comes excitedly when it sees us. Can you imagine what Gus-Gus is going to be like in six months? Irrigating partner, playmate, loyal goose friend (yes, we know the downside… goose poop, honking, swimming in Aspen’s pool….)
Gus-Gus, a subtle but noisy reminder of how precious and wonderful life is!
Originally published on the first contemporarywesterndesign.com site May 2007
That’s what went through my mind as I watched this tiny little creature intrepidly making its way over the black top of a busy parking lot outside our favorite little restaurant, the Sundance Café, in Dubois, Wyoming.
It was not a wind up, but a little, green-gray gosling fresh out of Horse Creek. Lost? Obviously.
Aspen and I tried to herd it back to the river. Ever tried to herd a goose? Impossible! So I swooped it up, put him in my coat and trooped over to the creek, to its siblings, the goose and gander.
Unfortunately they panicked, and off they went. Into the creek went the gosling, tweeting and twittering for his family as they went in opposite directions: gander upstream, goose and goslings bobbing down stream. He caught the current, but wouldn’t stay in it and back to shore he came. I put him in again, straining to see if the goose had stopped, but she was rounding the bend and quickly out of sight.
I couldn’t just walk away. My heart told me something wasn’t right. The little guy wouldn’t stay in the river. So I watched. Downstream it promptly found the shore, and out it came, fearlessly making its way into a motel parking lot.
That was enough. I couldn’t stand it. I made tracks for him, gathered him up with all the mommy instincts I had and took him home. On the way we discovered it had a blind eye.
We don’t know if it is a boy or girl, but we know that Gus-Gus is safe and sound. Swimming in his pool( a huge iron skillet) in the kitchen, tucked into our shirts and an old wool sock to keep him warm (he was only a day or so old when he was found). He even has a playpen made out of gated pipe in the yard so he can go outside.
Our little lost and found recognizes our voices and comes excitedly when it sees us. Can you imagine what Gus-Gus is going to be like in six months? Irrigating partner, playmate, loyal goose friend (yes, we know the downside… goose poop, honking, swimming in Aspen’s pool….)
Gus-Gus, a subtle but noisy reminder of how precious and wonderful life is!
Originally published on the first contemporarywesterndesign.com site May 2007
from the Archives, "Dad"
I remember the first time I came near the card aisle the first Father’s Day after my dad died. You couldn’t have drug me down it with a bulldozer. In fact, if I remember right, tears sprang to my eyes and I had to turn and leave the store.
My dad was a kind and gentle soul who worked very hard at both ranching and teaching. He could spot a kid who needed someone to believe in him at 1000 yards and I never saw him not make a difference.
It was hard to have your father as a teacher. He had high expectations. I was up to the task and usually rose to the occasion. I learned the FFA creed when I was just six years old, fascinated by the blue and gold jacketed members that stood at the podium in the front of the room and recited its poetic and heartfelt words.
Dad was happy when the ranch was a part of my life that I enjoyed. He needed a good hired hand and was proud that I worked as hard or harder than any boys that he could find. He was tough, but fair. And he rarely disputed my far flung dreams of traveling the world and always made sure that I had a chance to reach to them with several weeks off in the summer to travel.
I remember singing “Little Joe the Wrangler” and “Red River Valley” in the feed truck with him as we finished chores. He was always singing or humming and he taught me early how to dance. He read Thunderhead, Flicka and Green Grass of Wyoming to me each night before bed and I knew I wasn’t the only child that dreamed of horses, wide open spaces and being on a ranch forever.
He gave me his blessing to spread my wings and apply to an Ivy League school for college and hugged me tight when I got on the plane for Japan when I was merely 15.
He taught me how to plan rations, map genetics for the cow herd, plant the right mix of grass for hay and break a horse to ride. There was no question I loved my dad.
I wasn’t there the day he died, 2000 miles away. He had made it through my college graduation and Christmas day. Not long before, we’d found out he had cancer. Six months was all it took.
The irony is that he died in prison, a tragic end to a man I loved so much. I didn’t condone what he had done, but it didn’t change how I felt about him. I couldn’t be by his side that day on December 26th when he said good-bye to earth, but he gave me the greatest gift possible: a life full of love and an understanding that no matter how bad things are there is always good. It’s just up to me to find it.
Thank you, Dad. I love you.
Originally published on the first contemporarywesterndesign.com site June 2007
My dad was a kind and gentle soul who worked very hard at both ranching and teaching. He could spot a kid who needed someone to believe in him at 1000 yards and I never saw him not make a difference.
It was hard to have your father as a teacher. He had high expectations. I was up to the task and usually rose to the occasion. I learned the FFA creed when I was just six years old, fascinated by the blue and gold jacketed members that stood at the podium in the front of the room and recited its poetic and heartfelt words.
Dad was happy when the ranch was a part of my life that I enjoyed. He needed a good hired hand and was proud that I worked as hard or harder than any boys that he could find. He was tough, but fair. And he rarely disputed my far flung dreams of traveling the world and always made sure that I had a chance to reach to them with several weeks off in the summer to travel.
I remember singing “Little Joe the Wrangler” and “Red River Valley” in the feed truck with him as we finished chores. He was always singing or humming and he taught me early how to dance. He read Thunderhead, Flicka and Green Grass of Wyoming to me each night before bed and I knew I wasn’t the only child that dreamed of horses, wide open spaces and being on a ranch forever.
He gave me his blessing to spread my wings and apply to an Ivy League school for college and hugged me tight when I got on the plane for Japan when I was merely 15.
He taught me how to plan rations, map genetics for the cow herd, plant the right mix of grass for hay and break a horse to ride. There was no question I loved my dad.
I wasn’t there the day he died, 2000 miles away. He had made it through my college graduation and Christmas day. Not long before, we’d found out he had cancer. Six months was all it took.
The irony is that he died in prison, a tragic end to a man I loved so much. I didn’t condone what he had done, but it didn’t change how I felt about him. I couldn’t be by his side that day on December 26th when he said good-bye to earth, but he gave me the greatest gift possible: a life full of love and an understanding that no matter how bad things are there is always good. It’s just up to me to find it.
Thank you, Dad. I love you.
Originally published on the first contemporarywesterndesign.com site June 2007
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