Sunday, February 27, 2011

One stitch at a time

Jack is the Imelda Marcos of cowboy boots. His defense of the trailer load of footwear we move from place to place is economic. For 30 years he had worn the same double vamp Olathe buckaroo modified riding boots with 14-inch tops and a deep scallop.

In 1998 the company was having a going out of business sale so he developed a calculation based on how long a pair of boots generally lasted him and how long he expected to live and he bought a lifetime supply - 14 pairs.

By the time he and I met, most of the boots were well-worn (let's not look into that analogy too deeply) and, he told me, needed to be rebuilt. He had a regular day pair and a church pair he still wore, but the rest lived in storage.


Enter the orthopedic surgeon and new hip. Cowboy boots were no longer as comfortable as they had once been.

Enter the neurosurgeon and new neck bone.  Horseback riding is no longer high on his safe-to-do list.

Now what?

Well, first he was able to give his regular day pair to his granddaughter. She loves to wear them and it makes me so happy for them to have that connection.

And for the rest of the boots left in the land of misfit toys? At least one has been reborn as a hybrid, a blend of his cherished 14-inch double scallop tops and the bottom of boots from my corner of the world, L.L. Bean's rubber mocs

Before:
+



And, after:


Introducting the Prius of boots!


Friday, February 25, 2011

Underneath it all

The pronghorn may be fleet-footed (it is the fastest land mammal in the world - able to sprint 60 mph and sustain 30 mph for miles), but for some reason the species chooses not to soar over fences. I'm told they physiologically could do it, they just don't. Instead, they line up and crawl under.








Wednesday, February 23, 2011

Tally-haw? Yee-ho?

You know how great it feels to put on a favorite pair of jeans you haven't fit into in a while? How you get to skip the adjustment stage and move right into the total comfort of familiarity?

That was me on Monday, sitting in an English saddle, riding Sailor the Thoroughbred in patterns such as H-X-M and in 20 meter circles. I was wearing gloves with velcro backs, breeches with knee patches and a helmet. There were cavaletti poles in the corner and girls running around with half-chaps on.

I held my hands in thumb-to-thumb position above his withers and focused on the flexion in my elbows. I went into two-point and tried to pick up the correct diagonal. Somehow, in the middle of Wyoming I had walked into a building and gone back East for the afternoon. I felt like a fairy tale character who discovered home was right around the corner all along.

My lesson followed that of a local doctor. He and I chatted for a minute about eventing and I said something to the effect that my husband would never be an English rider. "He's a cowboy," I explained.


Many cowboys have come to love three-day eventing, he said. "It's the adrenaline."

Jack in breeches? That'll be the day.

Monday, February 21, 2011

Pardonnez-moi, avez-vous la viande bovine congelée?


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Another consequence of living in this beautiful land far away from “civilization” is that it is well, far away. Generally we like living apart, but what we enjoy being apart from is the congestion, strip malls and claustrophobic homogeneity. It is less fun to be so far from friends and family.
Last week I realized today was a holiday and that meant a three-day weekend – one with enough time to visit a friend I hadn’t seen in many months. It is a six-hour drive in good weather and snow was forecast but I went anyway.
I drove for six hours Saturday, spent the night and drove seven hours home on Sunday in and out of snowstorms. But it was worth it to see them and spend time with their baby girl.
And what did I bring as a thank-you for hosting me? A plant? A nice box sweets? A basket of decorative goodies? A book?
Nope.
A cooler full of beef.
Maybe I do need to spend some more time in civilized society after all.

Friday, February 18, 2011

Molecular redistribution

There is little moisture here. The average annual rainfall is around seven inches. Right now, moisture mostly comes in the form of snow and this week we had some warming days that melted the snow into pure liquid water. The problem is the ground here doesn't know what to do with it.


I tested this theory once by pouring water on to the ground. The balls of moisture curled up and sat, rejected by the dirt beneath, and waited to evaporate. Eventually - minutes later - chemistry had begun to work and the patch of dirt was indeed stained wet, but it was absorbed molecule by molecule, not with the kind of thirst I expected of dirt in the desert.

So imagine that writ large into snowmelt. Slick. Water on top of Gortex dirt; not unlike an oily road surface, really. When the water pools it eventually sinks in whether the dirt likes it or not and creates mud. My car and this mud are not friends. It sucks the car around and spits it out in inopportune places.  The car responds by splattering mud as far as it can.


Last year, we reached a detente in this war and resorted to leaving my car at the end of the driveway, close to the safety of asphalt, and using more appropriate vehicles to ferry me back and forth. Jack collects me in his truck, a ranch truck, or other vehicles that may have once been ranch trucks but which are now missing critical parts (like floors).

He collected me at the end of the driveway the other day and we relayed the stories of our daily activities on the way back to the house. I chattered about meetings and my aerobics class. He was sober; emotion caught in his voice.

"I lost a calf today."
"What happened? I thought they weren't supposed to start until next week."
"I know, but it didn't look premature. I found the heifer standing over it, nudging it, but it was already
dead. She would have been a good mama."


The next morning, dressed for my office job, I head for the ranch truck. On the flatbed is the calf, still looking like the newborn it was, exhausted and waiting to be licked back to life.

Sometimes I wish I could return to the world of blissful ignorance of buying packaged food at the grocery store and not giving a thought about where it came from, about the people who endure such stress and strain and the animals who sacrifice so much just so I can have a meal.  

Maybe I am the water, curled up and sitting on this Wyoming dirt until I evaporate on to the next phase of life. Or maybe I am the dirt into which the Wyoming lifestyle is melting. I've come to accept a lot about life here, but sometimes I still find dry patches.

“Adapt yourself to the things among which your lot has been cast and love sincerely the fellow creatures with whom destiny has ordained that you shall live.” - Marcus Aurelius

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

a new dichotomy

I am an avid HGTV fan. So avid it really should be taken away from me. My DVR is full of design and house-hunting shows. I am not alone in this fetish, however; recently I came across a book called "Life Would Be Perfect if I Lived in that House."

Life would not be perfect, of course, and I am VERY happy in our current home but oh how fun it is to dream! 

Yesterday we took a deeper plunge into my fantasy world and dragged a perfectly innocent realtor with us. I blame the person who told me a few weeks ago I was more suited to bungalow living than ranch living. To which I said TOO TRUE. And then, poof! An adorable craftsman-style bungalow comes on the market (which I know since I keep up - because WHY?) well within our budget. Who am I to argue with the Universe?

Within eight hours of seeing the listing we were touring the house. I loved it: great nooks, charming window panes and great light, arches between rooms, an updated kitchen with authentic touches, hardwood floors, radiator heat, a huge front porch, established perennials (lilacs! hollyhocks!), a clothesline and a garage.

Here is what Jack noticed. He could practically shake hands with the neighbors without getting out of bed. Cracks in the foundation. Traffic. Silly carved up rooms. The boiler was last inspected in 1942. A kitchen not conducive to cast iron. No heat upstairs. A square inch of unfenced yard for the dogs.

He did love the hot water heat (we could get a wood furnace!) and ... well, that's about it really.

Lesson learned. While I may be best suited for bungalow living, my honey is not. And I am best suited for living with him. End of discussion.

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

Ooh la latte!

Hope you all had a wonderful Valentine's Day! We made ours last all weekend. I'll spare you the mushy details but we had a nice time. My big surprise came Sunday morning.

I was so excited. It was beautifully wrapped, but very heavy. What could it be?


Wahoo! wahoo! wah-hoo!

Well, that was the first reaction. There was almost as much as squealing as when mice appear in unexpected places.

Then the squeals turned to 'hmm's. There was both an instructional booklet and an instructional DVD inside. Neither explained the space shuttle-like noise that rattled the whole counter when I turned it on.
I posted my concerns to facebook. "You'll come to love that noise," was one comment.



How right you are.  I watched the DVD a few times, read the book a few more times and experimented even more. Thankfully, friends came over with far more experience and showed me how not to splatter steamed milk all over myself.

And then?

The 'hmm's turned to 'mmm's.

Sunday, February 13, 2011

Apocalypse Now?

Every morning I slide the door open to feed Skip and check out the sunrise. The rooster(s) are usually crowing and the heifers are beginning to mill about. Lately it has been bitterly cold so I don't spend any longer than necessary with my head out the door. I was startled into pausing the other day when I looked up and saw this:

My horse, Joker, seemed about to climb the porch stairs. To this party he had brought the four other horses on the ranch which to my knowledge had last been seen in a corral. Had my esteemed equine sprung them from the pen?


He hadn't, I learned later, just after I saw all four of them crowded into my garden gnawing on frozen tomato stalks.

Startled though I was, I love having my horse in my yard. The first time my mother visited us a few years ago she trained him to come to the open window for a carrot. A horsey drive-thru!

Saturday, February 12, 2011

The biggest gainer

When we got back from traveling over the holidays our lithe, agile little barn kitten had sprouted a Jabba the Hut gut. She probably gained at least a pound and looked like she'd swallowed a softball.

Apparently while we were off on vacation she did little else but eat. Hard to blame her, really. For 10 days she was alone with Jack-the-cat who hates her with a visible cloud of vehemence and her food bowl.

Aw. Food is love. Even for kitties.

Maybe because she started life as a barn cat she has food security issues. As in, if she can even glimpse the bottom of her bowl she begins a begging frenzy. Meowing, Twirling around your feet. Leaping on to wherever you planned to sit to twirl and meow in your way.

She does this even when there is a full cup of food in the bowl. If it is all around the edges, though, and not over the middle, the world is ending.

Jack's suggestion?

"Let's take a picture of her food and paste it to the bottom of her bowl."

Thursday, February 10, 2011

Three blind mice

 

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Let me introduce you to killer. No, that’s not her real name. But she was hired to be our Mus musuculus assassin.

But first, some backstory. Mater loves to play but being blind, isn’t so great a playing fetch. So Mater’s no. 1 fan found him a ball that made lots of noise so Mater could (theoretically) find it. When in motion, the ball laughs and screeches taunts at you. He loved it. We, however, weren’t so sad when it went missing.

Fast forward a bit. Jack has had surgery and must sleep in the recliner in the living room. Mater, as always, sleeps on the love seat and Sluggo in the wing chair (can you say spoiled dogs?). The three of them were sound asleep when suddenly there arose such a racket (sorry, I couldn’t resist). The laughing and taunting was coming from under the couch.

How? Doesn’t it have to be moving? Wasn’t Mater asleep?
Yes.

The mice were playing with it.

Now, we had tried to be neighborly with the critters, but things were getting out of control. Tiny black pellets were showing up in very inopportune places and tiny skittering parties could be heard over the sound of Two and A Half Men. But this? This was the last straw.

In came killer, one of the barn kittens. Poof! No more pellets and uninterrupted television. I am extremely grateful for this. Except of course when I have to witness the wrath of Ghengis Kat.

to be continued …

Wednesday, February 9, 2011

The nine lives of Mater the wonder dog


Mater was born blind. He almost became the mascot in an optometrist's office, but ended up here with us instead, where he gets to run and crash into as many things as he wants to. That sounds awful (though not as bad as the sound of his head hitting the propane tank at full gallop), but Mater is the happiest, most resilient dog; he is an inspiration to all who have met him.


I know, we all are foolish over the wonders of our dogs, but consider this: in his three years, Mater has cheated death five times.

1. He was run over by a backhoe.
2. He went under the ice in the swiftly moving river.
3. He got lost into the wilderness of Bridger-Teton National Forest among the grizzlies and wolves.
4. He disappeared for four days on the ranch with a blown out knee.

And most recently, while we were on vacation and he was boarding at a friend's, he ate a carpet. A friend of mine lost her Corgi this way a few years ago so I know how dangerous it is. But Mater? He just threw it all up and had to live on rice for a few days. He's amazing.