Monday, October 10, 2011

His name is my name, too

Jack is really John.
For generations - since Adam and Eve, he says - the first male Schmidt has always been (and must always be) named John.
Jack's youngest son, Jacob, will become a father tomorrow. And, as he will be the first boy Schmidt of this generation, he will be a John.
It is common for the new John to be given his father's name as his middle name, but wait - that would make him - John Jacob Schmidt. Hear the Jingleheimer in there? It's implied.

Update: Jacob Alexander was born Oct. 11. He may not be a John, but he's a healthy happy grandson!




Saturday, September 17, 2011

Scenes from our harvest dinner











All that glitters is gold

There is an empty space at the end of my bed. A vacancy in the feline-formed depression in my comforter.

It seems strange to leave a half-packed suitcase on the bed. Before, it was a nest to be curled up in.

My clothes are cat-hair free today.

Cancer of the jaw, the vet said. The bone was disintegrating. Anything that went into his mouth went into his sinus cavity. Perpetual infection. Unable to eat or drink.

A sad end for my fierce Jack who pulled me in with his glittering green eyes. He came to the shelter with Callie, without whom I was not leaving. She came to the edge of the cage to snuggle through the bars. He hunched at the back and hissed.

How could I separate them? Who would adopt a cat who wouldn't let anyone touch him? So they came home with me. She cuddled, he hissed. Eventually, a year or so later, he let my hand get close enough for actual contact. Later, he even crawled into my lap and stayed for a second or two. A triumph!

The scars from his leaps off my lap have faded now.

That was years ago. I was still the only human who could get close, let alone touch him, though. Whenever husband Jack walked by, Jack the cat greeted him with a hiss and a swat.

But me? All I had to do was sit and form a lap and he came, jumped up and insisted I remain still until he decided to leave.

Anyone house sitting for us had to be reassured that yes, there really is a cat here. You will not see him, but he does need food and water. If they sought him out, they found a vicious beast cornered under the bed.

But me? As soon as I pulled the covers to my chin, he crawled up and laid on my chest, staring through the book for me to pet him.

Goodbye, friend. Maybe no one else does, but I miss you.

Sunday, September 11, 2011

Games of chance, Wyoming style

What have all these people gathered for? What amazing event do they expect to witness? 
Why, a chicken drop! 
What is a chicken drop, you ask?
Giggles could be heard from old men and young girls, but never did the tension cease.
They watched with focus and care, hoping it would be on their number she would release.
Which number did she choose?
She didn't! Why that old hen, she just looked out at the fools 
with a look that said, Please! Take me back to my nest!

Sunday, August 21, 2011

Playmates

We thought when we got Sluggo, he would be a playmate for Mater. Obviously, we were new to life with a corgi. They do not play, they direct.

Poor Mater became the object of all direction; moments of play were few and far between. Mostly they wrestle over toys and make a big show of their tussle, but only until Sluggo decides he has had enough. Like real brothers, they are competitive and want all the attention.

 When Skip arrived, we weren't sure how he would fit in. As a guard dog, for sure. But into the canine family? Turns out, he was the playmate Mater had been waiting for.

 
Sluggo tries to direct Skip, but Skip dismisses him like a gnat. He is a real dog, patrolling for miles, saving the chickens from coyotes and generally keeping everything in order. He has no time for stunted little barkmobiles like Sluggo turns into around him.

 But Skip loves Mater. They roll around, gnaw on each other's necks and Skip runs laps trying to get the blind dog to catch him. Pure joy. No one can help but smile at their delight at simple play.



 


So please excuse my absence. I have taken their lesson to heart and been engaged in simple play this summer.

Friday, July 22, 2011

The world's largest Dutch oven

I suppose this could be the house that Jack built. It's big enough for someone to live in it. This summer, whilst needing and undergoing back surgery, Jack (with the help of his granddaughter) built what he thinks may be the world's largest Dutch oven.

The base is a cauldron discovered abandoned on the ranch and the top is the end of a propane tank. I wish I had more pictures of the process, but here it is before:
 And here it is in action, doing what it was designed to do: cook an entire side of beef at once.

The fire was stoked at 4am to heat the oven in time to cook the steamboat round for a 6 pm serving time. It was cooked entirely with embers from a burning elm log.
At the party that night, the bonfire burned alone. We all gathered around the oven!
The oven weighs 540 pounds (per the cattle scale) and holds 72 gallons. The handle is a welded horseshoe. The base has three legs welded on to keep it off the heat. A pulley system had to be installed to lift the lid. Luckily, enough tractors were handy to move it!


I love a parade

The Fourth of July is celebrated here as part of Pioneer Days. While other places play up the spirit of Team America on the anniversary of the Declaration of Independence, here it is more about the independence itself. This is a place where people are bonded by the harsh geography and isolation. It takes a special kind of person to want to live here and once a year we get together to celebrate the collective drum beat of our distinct rhythm.

We feel strongly about our animals. This little girl is heir apparent to a pack llama operation. Hiking? Not excited about carrying your own gear? Rent a llama!
We are passionate about guns. (When I say we, I mean them.) I took about 30 pictures of this boy and his toy rifle complete with scope. It so clearly symbolizes Wyoming to me, where you no longer need a permit to carry a concealed weapon.
We love our rodeo queens. Note the fancy chaps.
We love our heritage. This man is in his 80s and has his team up and down main street for fun whenever he feels like it. He drove a team across the country on an Oregon trail anniversary ride not too many years ago. The front wagon is a chuckwagon (his name is Chuck) and the back one a sheepwagon.
We love the outdoors. This town is home to the International Climber's Festival because the local climbing opportunities are outstanding.
We love our public lands. In Wyoming, the Forest Service and Bureau of Land Management preserve 34 percent of the state for multipurpose uses (mining, camping, wildlife, grazing, logging, etc.)
We love our thrills. This flame could be heard a mile away and heated the street up by 20 degrees. It is the base of a hot air balloon And this kind made me dizzy just watching him skate back and forth, back and forth. On a moving vehicle!



We love our kids. This does not mean we bubble-wrap them, however. When I moved here, I was astonished to see children riding horses on their own at this age. Without helmets! Don't even get me started on the junior rodeo craziness - imagine this tot barrel racing at top speeds (again, sans helmet). I may be a little to East coast to ever get used to this.
We love our cowboys! The Wyoming bucking horse is EVERYTHING here, including the University mascot. There was not even a little discussion about what would adorn the Wyoming quarter. The rider in this image was a man named Stub Farlow, who called this town home. The horse was named Steamboat.
We love our horses. These three are friends of ours. One is in training, learning from the other two. They are pulling an Indian drum group from the nearby reservation.
Sorry, I couldn't resist another one. This was too Lee Harvey Oswald not to post.
We love to do it our way. This guy was a great surprise since he was flanked by two outriders and I didn't see him until they paused for a second and let him get ahead. Note the expression on the girl's face. I don't think she's from these parts. If you remember my thoughts on steer jumping, you'll understand how much this made me giggle.
We love our neighbors. The Eastern Shoshone tribe and Northern Arapaho tribe live here and I love learning about their history and culture. Her outfit and her horse's gear are all hand-beaded!

We also love our Indian princesses! Why they are princesses and not queens, I don't know.Her headdress (the Shoshone rose) and her front piece (not sure what it is really called) are all beaded.
 
And of course, we love our country.

Oh, and the view. 

How does your town celebrate Independence Day?

It's back!

Mater's four-wheeler was discovered out of gas and abandoned in the sagebrush a couple of miles from here!

Monday, July 4, 2011

High cotton

This is a tale of flagrant flirtation.

We have two giant cottonwood trees behind our house. Their names are Steve and Georgia, after the people who moved them from their lonely spot as the only trees in a thousand acres across the highway to be the only trees on that side of the road. That was 35 years ago. 

Every year, they do the same dance; beforehand Georgia gets all fluffed up to impress Steve. This year, though, he wasn't having it.

She began with jewelry. Pretty dangly gems. 
Then she really began to put on a show with her fluffy coat.

She flirted, blowing him kisses in the sunshine and tossing come hither looks at him from every angle.
He was having none of it.
He turned his back and looked to the horizon. 
Still no other tree, Steve. Sorry.