tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-58533186554121853532024-03-14T02:29:25.179-07:00Young Librarian + Old CowboyCoryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03926996295246260061noreply@blogger.comBlogger103125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5853318655412185353.post-73178187998087700382021-12-08T11:17:00.001-08:002021-12-08T11:18:21.825-08:00<p>I have been looking at my previous post for a year, since this is the page I come to to find the list of blogs I occasionally visit. There it is, all the charm and whimsy and heart of last year's Christmas celebration. It was deliberate; I purposefully, even viciously, sucked all the life and vitality and magic out of every moment. It was wonderful and a time to treasure.</p><p> This year? Nada. </p><p>Zero interest in decorating or celebrating at all. Not entirely true. Over the weekend we attended the local production of A Christmas Carol, and last night, the community concert. Both were sweet with rumpled dress clothes, a Gatorade beside the trumpet at rest, the silly ties and of course, kids on stage singing and trying to stay in their places and say their lines. But I did not go to revel in the swath of forest and peppermint scented magic that is Christmas energy. </p><p>Instead, we attended to be in community. </p><p>To stand up and hold up those nearest to us as they go out on a little limb purely for our benefit. To appreciate their talent and efforts. To be there. This is not my normal way; I'm a hermit. But I'm a hermit with a penchant for cozy novels where tight communities hassle against one another but come together and pull each other through when it really counts. I suppose it is more George Bailey around here this month than it is Santa. </p><p>Years ago someone told me you don't go to church to find God, you bring God with you. And perhaps Christmas is the same. You don't go into it waiting for Santa to come to your house, you bring him out with you. </p><p>All year long. </p>Coryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03926996295246260061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5853318655412185353.post-12382558839034721652021-01-10T20:10:00.000-08:002021-01-10T20:10:49.899-08:00Savoring<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kDPUssojmGQ/X--1HVwt2AI/AAAAAAAAEjo/HJ0Uw3k32RYSBXFgb513K_2gk8KVGj6qgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/50658546318_592cbd16bf_k.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kDPUssojmGQ/X--1HVwt2AI/AAAAAAAAEjo/HJ0Uw3k32RYSBXFgb513K_2gk8KVGj6qgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/50658546318_592cbd16bf_k.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rHmHsX3YEmk/X--1HfWduoI/AAAAAAAAEjs/IIu3rPVWyN8_ZJ22VivBnvcFHxr1QL6tgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/50670921382_6aab4389b6_k.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; 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margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1180" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WgrJNLu1NH8/X--1NXX_XeI/AAAAAAAAEkk/QXH5MzhSD1YDOmw4vqBxGwv634IFA7qagCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/50772184222_8dd8fe856c_k.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-104_YaUSO1Q/X--1NxRkPyI/AAAAAAAAEks/YeeU9V-zOswtV6X3FA9kl5EJrgHhAAc1wCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/50772185142_12fcb78e97_k.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-104_YaUSO1Q/X--1NxRkPyI/AAAAAAAAEks/YeeU9V-zOswtV6X3FA9kl5EJrgHhAAc1wCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/50772185142_12fcb78e97_k.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Czo5INgrCz8/X--1NpepZAI/AAAAAAAAEko/NPkobCjFsuwAaGRTLuVUGrwc7yAL0eLxQCLcBGAsYHQ/s800/50785783456_c30e0241d7_c.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Czo5INgrCz8/X--1NpepZAI/AAAAAAAAEko/NPkobCjFsuwAaGRTLuVUGrwc7yAL0eLxQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/50785783456_c30e0241d7_c.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-w3YWZ47Jqvg/X--1Qg1MhdI/AAAAAAAAEkw/_N-004NWgQItZL0xOs7-WphXBqg2ImPyQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/50788946391_285198dbdf_4k.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-w3YWZ47Jqvg/X--1Qg1MhdI/AAAAAAAAEkw/_N-004NWgQItZL0xOs7-WphXBqg2ImPyQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/50788946391_285198dbdf_4k.jpg" /></a></div><br /> The holidays this year were nice, on purpose. Step one: manage expectations. Every day I carried with me the best advice: "strive for a B- Christmas". Not perfect, not A, not gold star. Not even memorable. Just tender and sweet and full of treasured details. Absolved of any responsibility to make everyone's (anyone's) wishes come true. I approached this fully alone (not even church) Christmas for Jack and I determined to have something to look forward to. Step 2: plan ahead! As someone steeply tipped toward melancholy on a good day, the holidays are perilous. So I marched family up a mountain in deep snow on Thanksgiving for one they'll not forget soon (one girl's first pee in the woods!), was virtually first to the lot for the prettiest Fraser fir available, and make a full Christmas menu. The prep was extensive so I had to remember it was the prep itself I was enjoying, not laboring through it to get to some nirvana at the other end. And so I planned a Swedish Christmas Eve meal complete with Glogg (but missing my grandmother's braided cardomom braid because keto) and a German Christmas day meal with keto cranberry Moscow mules for pregame. There may or may not have been spreadsheets involved. And I am perfectly happy - ecstatic, in fact - that after my planned festivities he got to watch football while I delved fully into the magic of Bridgerton. All was merry and bright. <div><br /></div><div>Going into the dark time of the year it felt important to breathe into the details, to spend more time on the bark and the needles, let alone the trees or forest. The whole seems too big right now, but in these small moments a whole is made. Like our New Year's Eve hot toddies and my state park adventure first day hike from 7400' to nearly 8000'. Start the year off the way you intend to spend it, right? Moving about in nature, learning, covered in sunshine, adventuring with my dog. What happens deep within brings forth what happens above, becomes visible. If we do it right, the rest will come. Slainte!<p></p></div>Coryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03926996295246260061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5853318655412185353.post-57708175045801846332020-09-04T20:27:00.003-07:002020-09-04T20:27:21.932-07:00Craving<p style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2179" data-original-width="2179" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nSRF9JS_SEk/X1MFT_sEPJI/AAAAAAAAEdM/eVfgPuK-yZgxaHVS7mAUe6j0cw-F7HvEgCPcBGAsYHg/s320/IMG_5693.JPG" /></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">I made bread today. Not real bread, of course. Although who gets to decide what real bread is? Everything is a construct. Even toast. My bread will accept butter smeared on top just like 'normal' bread. It will not, however, send me into craving spirals</span><span style="font-family: times;"> like 'regular' bread does. The ingredients are also 'weird.' (So much judgement in our daily lives!) Things like whey protein isolate and inulin and psyllium. No wheat flour. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">As a librarian, I notice things can be better understood often when we go up a cataloging level. Books are grouped by broad topic: history, then again by increasingly narrower topics. History - American slips to History - American - Mississippi. You get the idea. It is the physical manifestation of our human need to lump things together to ease cognitive response. If I know which box you belong in I can quickly decide if you are good or bad, safe or worrisome. The truth is our b<br />rains never really graduated from second grade. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">While my bread does not have wheat flour, it does have flour - almond flour. It as leavening. It has fiber. Binder. The subcategories, where things get narrower, are where things get hairy and debate enters the scene. And with debate, values and controversy. The details matter, yes. But not so much as the reality: the kind of flour and the kind of binder are irrelevant, aren't they? At the end of the day we both have bread. We eat and are nourished, sustained. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">This does not work for everything, of course. For example, words. Each one carries distinctly different weight and purpose. Animals; indisputably varied. However, context also matters. If the described situation is about communication, about how ideas are transmitted from one consciousness to another, words is one way. The precise words used may not matter. They are distinct from physical or psychic communication. Same with animals. A forest scene, for example, may contain plants and animals and that is all we need know. It is in fully completing the picture that we need the details. What color eyes? How long a tail? How much baking powder? How much sweetener? The full naming - the kingdom, genus, species - of a situation brings it to fruition as an idea or as food. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">Poetry uses words to bring forth the intangible sensation of being that is indescribable by most of us, but in a poet's hands awareness is expanded: a greater truth experienced perhaps only in our subconscious is brought forward into the frame of recognition. And it is recognition we all seek. Technically, recognition means '<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">identification of someone or something or person from previous encounters or knowledge'or '</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">acknowledgment of something's existence, validity, or legality.' What it feels like in practice is a lot like what happens in a great a capella group: the song is good when one or two are singing, but when the harmonies join together it is next level. We access a greater whole. The same comes with the spark of recognition: a deep inner resonance that lights us up. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">Recognition is the path to connection, what we mean when we say connect: I see you in me and me in you. We are connected. And this becomes possible when we go up a level: I do not like water skiing. I do not see me in you. You do not like horses. You do not see yourself in me. But we both enjoy fast-paced hobbies in the outdoors. I love reading. You hate it. You love movies. I never watch movies. We both love storytelling, escaping into other worlds. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">Since our brains are second-graders (mine is a toddler, I'm quite sure) it is my job to guide it. When we look for recognition, sift up and down the categories until we find a point of connection, we tune into the harmony. I can't sing a note (true story: my mother wouldn't let me join in Christmas carols) but I train myself every day to search every interaction, every moment for a spark of recognition. Unless you are my husband. Since day one he has been a mystery. A compelling one, I might add. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">We crave connection more than anything; it is the human condition. Unfortunately, the shadow side is that because we want it so very much, we protect ourselves from rejection and instead of training our brains to connect in every situation, we allow them free rein to zero in on the disconnect, the difference. Stalwart against the difference, righteous in our position, we maintain defenses and our second grade lizard brain thinks we win. But our deepest selves cry out from behind the ramparts, lonely and unrecognized as part of the greater story. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">This, I believe, is the source of all addiction (food, alcohol, social media, drugs). We are numbing the pain of disconnection. The only balm is connection, the stroke of reminder we are part of the whole. For we are all, at the top of the umbrella classification, humans. Whether a tele-skiing vegan with a herd of Afghan dogs who dresses all in black or a wool spinning knitter who collects Polly Pocket dolls and eats hard boiled eggs for breakfast every day, each person has points of intersection, of connection. It is up to us to search for them and, further, to cultivate new ones. </span></p>Coryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03926996295246260061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5853318655412185353.post-60567000843106563042020-03-24T16:07:00.003-07:002020-03-24T16:07:45.088-07:00His and hers: Pandemic edition<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
On so many levels we are a mixed marriage. Age doesn't even scratch the surface of differences. Politics is not a space we wander into often. Religion has about one inch of overlap. And most of all, people. He would claim he is as introverted as I am, but this has brought out the truth. I have prayed diligently for years for a lifestyle that allowed as little interaction with people as possible. These past days have been pretty great: horse, husband, dog. I work over Zoom and that's OK. It isn't peopling all day, every day, as most days are under normal circumstances. I come home wrecked, often unable to even go see my horse because I am so tired from all the peopling. I love my peoples, but time alone is GOLD. These days there is plenty of time for restoration between interactions and I can be present and pleasant (I hope) when I do show up in the videoconference. I get to do this alot and my eyes belie how happy I am.<br />
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By contrast, he calls everyone he knows all day long and plenty of people he doesn't know but would like to. Despite dire warnings and my death stares he still goes over to his friends (older than him) house for beers every afternoon. And yesterday, our neighbor and his son were digging in the yard by our fence. Another neighbor had come by. Keep in mind he has had VERY few conversations with these men; two barely speak English. We are not friends. Have never been in one another's houses. But when he saw this little gathering at the fence he literally trotted out the door. People! Whee! </div>
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And so, we have confirmation. I am indeed an introvert. Excuse me, an INTROVERT. He is an extrovert. Please remember:<br />
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Coryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03926996295246260061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5853318655412185353.post-87068206222939151622019-11-08T19:07:00.000-08:002019-11-08T19:09:00.060-08:00Dream come true<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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For ages we have chatted about what we would serve if we had a restaurant. I fantasized about a customized menu geared toward my way of eating of the moment (gluten-free, vegan, now <a href="https://www.ruled.me/guide-keto-diet/" target="_blank">keto</a>). He fantasized about locally sourced foods featured in unexpected ways. For the most part this was the kind of mindless dreaming we reveled in: buy a camper (or wagon, if you have a handlebar mustache and penchant for mules) and travel the country a la <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/23492799-the-oregon-trail" target="_blank">Nick and Rinker Buck </a>if you are him, or <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/5306.Travels_with_Charley" target="_blank">Steinbeck</a> if you are me; move to the town with the hot springs and spend our days in sulfur cloud stupors; fill the backyard with miniature farm animals (did you know there were <a href="https://www.minilonghorn.com/babies" target="_blank">miniature longhorns?</a>) - definitely me; have a team of big horses to feed cattle with. We are excellent dreamers. Creative, detailed. Meanwhile, I pursued my education and stayed the course with my job at the college. He remodeled the house, sang in the church choir, and dabbled in local food.<br />
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This year the dabbling led to business cards. A board of directors. A business plan. Presenting to legislative committees. A<a href="http://stitcher.com/podcast/the-fremont-food-hub-podcast" target="_blank"> podcast</a>.<br />
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And now, a restaurant. The Local Food Exchange opened about a month ago with a vision, a prayer, and a lot of community support. Suddenly we are shifting gears from lackadaisically imagining what life would be like if... (cue chewing on straw in the front porch swing) to bumping around in the midst of confusing logistics, learning how to tread water a little more effectively each day.<br />
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Today, a load of locally-grown potatoes was delivered that will soon become french fries. A little more efficient than the half-day trip out to their farm we did last time. He let his new helpers open for the first time without him today so he could come with me to the blood draw. Our city manager has been up every morning this week for his breakfast.<br />
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I keep joking to people that he is failing at retirement, but look at him, peeling boxes of local apples I made into pie that he later traded for a Google business listing (a born trader!): Happy, invigorated. The brain atrophies in the kind of disuse I plan for my retirement: porch, hammock, book. Researchers recommend constant learning, and not the kind of learning that comes from reading an article or two. The kind that comes with trying new things, trying to be something different, stretching who you are.<br />
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Norman Mailer wrote: "Every moment of one's existence one is growing into more or retreating into less." We all know that growth and discomfort are inextricable. No growth happens in the comfort zone. Turns out Jack's growth zone comes with a side of gravy and pie for dessert. Come and get it!</div>
Coryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03926996295246260061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5853318655412185353.post-35486052347812453822019-01-16T05:54:00.000-08:002019-01-16T05:54:04.519-08:00Meat, Meat and more Meat<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I was a vegetarian for 10 years. Jack's livelihood all of his life has depended on the production of meat. On our first date we wandered into a restaurant in the basement of a historic house in Independence, Missouri. We were supposed to have visited the Truman Library that day but he hijacked me and instead we went to the National Historic Trails Museum. It was fitting: we were our own kind of pioneer, after all. In the restaurant I ordered a salad. He ordered chicken livers and gizzards. I was appalled. Disgusting. He might as well have ordered the dredge from the bottom of the mop bucket.<br />
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Last year I found my way to a ketogenic way of eating, which has been life-changing. No more the inner angst, grinding weariness, and persistent frustration with life in general. Oh, and I lost some weight, too. Keto means mostly protein and virtually no carbs. I find I do best when eating virtually only eggs and meat. So here we are. I didn't even plant a garden this year. We have gone through several sous vide wands this year and half our back porch is occupied by a giant smoker. Jack feels quite vindicated since this seems to have worked out better than my forays into veganism and raw food. Even after 14 months I still flip outside myself and look back, incredulous.<br />
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When he tells people he converted me (not true!) to meat eating I respond that I'm making up for lost time. Ten years of meat for me! And thankfully he IS the source to find all local meat in our town (and working to develop that market for others) so I have my very own Butcher Box supplier who even cooks it just the way I like it. This pork steak (from our pig) was sous vide <i>and </i>smoked!<br />
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We have <i>three</i> freezers full of mostly protein in the garage, though one has homemade stock of all varieties (even buffalo!) and half of another is full of offal: the unmentionables no one else in town wants. Word has gotten out that Jack wants it! Chicken livers and gizzards were nothing, as it turns out! He and a few friends are threatening to start an offal lunch club. When a man at church had a kidney removed, Jack baked him a steak and kidney pie. He even cut out little kidneys in the pie crust top. I don't think anyone ate it but him, though.<br />
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So, dear, what kind of protein do you require today, he asks while pouring his coffee. I have smoked roast beef, pulled pork, turkey breast, bacon, and grass-fed tri-tip in the fridge beside the three dozen local eggs. "I think I'm fine for today, thanks!"<br />
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Coryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03926996295246260061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5853318655412185353.post-34172202743081512772016-04-03T07:11:00.001-07:002016-05-09T15:57:14.894-07:00My favorite Doodle dog<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It is the end of an era, the death of our fine dog, Skip<a href="http://skip./">.</a> He was to be named Kip, Jack said, like a good cattle dog he’d once known. But It kept coming out with an S on the front. So Skip he became. Not that the name ever mattered much to him. What mattered to him was belonging. Having a place to come home to, where there would be food and love, always. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The boy was just there waiting on the stoop one day when we got back to the ranch. A black dog with brown points above his eyes like a Doberman or a Rottweiler. Nothing about this thin mangy guy was threatening, though. He tilted his head, pushed his ears back and smiled. I’m a love. Can’t you tell? </span></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PkTd4UMS5z0/TTEhmt37CQI/AAAAAAAAAlY/a8w-DwDJ_ukTCCJuXdtlXRDuwGFkKbtsg/s1600/skip.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PkTd4UMS5z0/TTEhmt37CQI/AAAAAAAAAlY/a8w-DwDJ_ukTCCJuXdtlXRDuwGFkKbtsg/s1600/skip.jpg" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/7816505@N06/5341011255/in/album-72157625622594430/"></a><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">His job was to keep the coyotes off the place, and he was especially good at guarding the chickens who never even had to be locked up at night. I once watched as a few coyotes (or a pack - who can ever tell how many there are?) came close into the ranch and he ran them off. “Regular” dogs often fall victim to their tricks, but never Skip. He charged them, but always came back before they could get him surrounded and turned around to charge again until they gave up and left. Wileyer than a coyote. </span></div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OGx_hd7XXBI/VwEjbaam3tI/AAAAAAAABNE/5TlZijTrZj4wmBIIObr9FtxKMHP32xTUQ/s1600/248897_10150214513202568_3107795_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OGx_hd7XXBI/VwEjbaam3tI/AAAAAAAABNE/5TlZijTrZj4wmBIIObr9FtxKMHP32xTUQ/s320/248897_10150214513202568_3107795_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When we moved to town we worried most about him. The transition from roaming hundreds of acres with nary a fence in sight to one acre would be tough. But here he came in. A dog bed. Treats. A ball to chase after (and never return). A ditch to soak in on days when the heat made being a fluffy black dog more intolerable than the snow and freezing cold. </span></div>
<img alt="" aria-busy="true" aria-describedby="fbPhotosSnowliftCaption" class="spotlight" height="300" src="https://scontent-sea1-1.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-xap1/v/t1.0-9/12314061_10153382981132568_601923358976201713_n.jpg?oh=ad88f4fdf4773d1e9338a8baca4ddf06&oe=577FFDC8" style="height: 470px; width: 320px;" width="240" /><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Nicknamed Skipper LeDoux by a friend, at home he began to answer to Doodles, a ridiculous name that suited him just fine. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The bounding leaps of joy! The racehorse dashes down the fenceline after his arch enemy! The belly rolls with one foot flopped to be extra cute. His special nest in the middle of the giant lilac bush. Laying down to eat, while the hyena corgi circled. His squeals when his favorite people came to visit. His last ears relaxed, bright eyed smile at me in the vet’s office. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In 2002, an intuitive told me that I’d live in a white house at the base of a mountain and a back dog would come and bring my deceased uncle to guard my life. Did I mention that our house was beige? And surrounded by mountains beyond the plain? That Skip was black? Whenever I touched my head to his head all the stress drained immediately. It was magical medicine. </span></div>
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Coryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03926996295246260061noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5853318655412185353.post-72756091644760098722013-09-15T04:43:00.001-07:002013-09-15T04:46:19.381-07:00Marriage as C25K<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I am reading Kate Braestrup's second memoir, <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Marriage-Other-Acts-Charity-Memoir/dp/B005SN21L0" target="_blank">Marriage and Other Acts of Charity</a></i>. </div>
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Her tale reminds me of my favorite admonition about marriage: a successful one is where both man and wife each think they got the better end of the deal. Today is our anniversary. And let me tell you. I won. </div>
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What he got: neuroses, debt, abhorrence of household maintenance, neuroses, vegetables, political rants, oh, and did I mention my neuroses?</div>
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What I got: Love. </div>
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A few months ago, in the midst of the time that shall not be mentioned (still processing) I found this was my horoscope:</div>
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I was crying a lot in those days but this made me grin from the inside out. Because that girl? The one with the mix tapes full of Bryan Adams, Journey, Cheap Trick and every other longing ballad? I want to tell her that those nights of wishing and hoping and thinking and praying - they worked! She won the marriage lottery!</div>
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I just read this amazing <a href="http://www.viralnova.com/womans-amazing-obituary/" target="_blank">obituary; Pink's story</a> is the story Jesus wants to hear from every obituary he reads over his morning coffee. Love. A lot. Openly and with abandon. </div>
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I am not guilty of this behavior. I fail to love on many - well, most - occasions. My husband, on the other hand, is a gift. My first reaction to anything - a bird at the window, a letter in the mail, a new recipe - is analytic. </div>
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My brain goes to all the factors, the whys, the implications, the context and relation to all things known before. It asserts dominance every time. Let's just say I don't radiate love and grace the way Pink did.</div>
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Jack, on the other hand, is the Ghost of Christmas Present. Come, and know me better, man! He lives fully and radiates love. He is grace when I have a tantrum, solace when I am afraid, hope when I doubt. His arms are always open. </div>
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Why do we celebrate anniversaries? Some do to honor what the couple has made of their life together. Home, children, community. Some mark the survival of tumultuous years. Some renew their vows. </div>
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Today marks six years for us since we first said our vows.</div>
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We kept the whole better or worse stuff, the richer or poorer, the sickness and in health bit (<a href="http://librarianandcowboy.blogspot.com/2013/07/springing-into-summer.html" target="_blank">see previous post</a>). We agreed faithful was probably good to stick in. Honesty, respect, trust, etc. Then we took a little creative license and declared: </div>
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"I promise to honor you; to share all that I am with you and to love you all the days of my life."</div>
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"I join with you on your journey; that we may learn to better understand ourselves, the world and God." </div>
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Yes, I love him every day. And every day he shows me how to be a little better at it. </div>
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In her conclusion, the lady who performed the ceremony admonished us. "Cory and Jack, treat each other with respect and remind yourselves often of what brought you together. Give the highest priority to the tenderness, gentleness and kindness that your marriage deserves. If each of you takes responsibility for the quality of your life together, your marriage will be marked by abundance and delight." </div>
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She was right. So today we celebrate this 5k victory while training for a marathon. Love is choice every minute of every day. Someday I hope I will finally learn it well enough so love will become my default the way Jack learned it to be from his parents and Pink - and Jesus - taught us it should be.<br />
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Coryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03926996295246260061noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5853318655412185353.post-30877540283178730312013-07-05T11:11:00.000-07:002013-07-05T11:11:58.527-07:00Springing into summer<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="text-align: left;">Which is longer, a saga or an epic? Please hold while I transfer you to Google. (Response: A saga is an Icelandic epic.) Either way, it's been a long haul.</span></div>
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I won't bore you with the episodic details since the characters are all the same. The bottom line is that Jack's outfit has had an open back for most of the past four months. In those rare weeks when it didn't, it had suspenders.
Needless to say, the heart surgery had some complications. Which led to other complications.<br />
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It has been a trying time. We will certainly be different people at the end of this. </div>
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Coryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03926996295246260061noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5853318655412185353.post-89596664174337760582013-02-24T09:04:00.001-08:002013-02-24T09:05:21.031-08:00Have a heart, or a cow<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Many years ago we were watching a program about medical advances. They were discussing prosthetic limbs and other artificial body parts that were creating bionic people. Jack was having none of it.<br />
"If I need one, give me one of those pig valves. Or even better, a cow valve!"<br />
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We laughed. Who had ever heard of a cow valve?<br />
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Fast forward to last fall.<br />
Me: "You really need to see the cardiologist. They found concerns a couple of years ago and there hasn't been any follow-up."<br />
Him: "I didn't like the last guy we saw."<br />
Me: "There are others. Give them a call."<br />
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Eventually, the call was made. Tests were ordered. An appointment scheduled. We never made it to that appointment. After the second test the doctor who happened to be there came in. I was at work so he recorded it for me.<br />
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(In a Romanian accent:)<br />
"You need an aortic valve replacement plus one, maybe two bypasses. We need to get you in for a heart catheterization immediately."<br />
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The past few weeks have been a bit of a blur. That was week one. Week two was the catheterization, which was not pleasant. Watching the video of the vessel function was pretty amazing, however. I'm a big believer in alternative medicine but am properly awed - and grateful - for modern medicine as well. The surgeon on call that day said the surgery was necessary but that the symptoms weren't significant (fatigue and shortness of breath). Because of that he thought it could wait until he was back from covering other cities (Wyoming has two heart surgeons. TWO.) and a vacation. "My office will call and set you up for about a month from now."<br />
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Today is Sunday. On Monday last week the office called and said the other surgeon could do it sooner and could we come see him tomorrow? His office is two hours away. We went. He scheduled the surgery for Friday.<br />
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"Now, you have a choice. An artificial valve will last the longest. They never wear out, but you have to be on blood thinner for the rest of your life. You can have a tissue valve, which doesn't last quite as long but longer than we used to think. We used to think they would only last 10 years. Now studies are showing they last up to 25 years."<br />
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"What kind of tissue?"<br />
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"We prefer to use bovine pericardium."<br />
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We looked at each other. A cow valve??<br />
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Friday morning they installed an extra-large aortic COW valve in Jack's heart. He has been missing the cows since we moved. Now he literally carries one around with him. Or maybe more bull. </div>
Coryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03926996295246260061noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5853318655412185353.post-87239025634378070922013-01-05T16:32:00.002-08:002013-01-05T16:35:37.126-08:00In My Room<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I don't have any before photos for this post, but I'm guessing you can imagine. Perhaps you even have a similar space in your house somewhere. You know, that room/corner/basement that is stuffed full of boxes, strewn with unwanted decorations, unheated and saturated with dust?<br />
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That one.<br />
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A couple of strands of lights never made it back into the Christmas box. A rare trip to the city yielded *the perfect* fabric. And I remembered. A room can make you happy just by being in it. </div>
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Bright colors. Whimsy. Treasures only I care about. I piled them in and sat back to soak it in. Well, after I cleaned (how fun was it to clean those blinds? Not very. But so worth it.) </div>
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The day before the city trip I began <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Amish-Grace-Forgiveness-Transcended-Tragedy/dp/0470344040" target="_blank">Amish Grace</a> and a phrase they use resonated with me: </div>
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JOY: Jesus first, Others second, Yourself last. </div>
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Irony in putting that up in a room all for me? Why yes, there is. I'll go meditate upon that. In my room. </div>
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Coryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03926996295246260061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5853318655412185353.post-50162015037674163352013-01-03T06:32:00.002-08:002013-01-03T06:33:55.421-08:00Home makeover: Office edition<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="text-align: left;">Before: </span></div>
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After:<br />
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Here is the curtain fabric. It makes the green shag carpet seem purposeful instead of inherited.<br />
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Coryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03926996295246260061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5853318655412185353.post-40733135272650250702012-12-28T04:12:00.000-08:002012-12-28T04:14:20.695-08:00Christmas 2012<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
For the first time I planned a facebook status ahead of time. I had to wait until Christmas Eve to post: "The hopes and fears of all the years are met in Thee tonight." I hadn't realized Christmas had become so empty to me until this year when it was full again.<br />
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Not even discovering most of our ornaments were covered in mold could dampen my spirit.<br />
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My mother's cousin made me the heart ornament when I was very, very young. I made the reindeer in 4-H in 6th grade and bought the reindeer head at a church craft fair. It was my favorite because it held a Hershey kiss. The tape was my two best Jenny's playing Christmas carols on the piano, ca. 1990.</div>
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It was sad to lose them, but happy to put the tree up with the surviving ornaments. Of course they were virtually all glass or ceramic. </div>
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The clatter that woke me that night was more of a crash as the whole thing fell to the floor. I'd like to blame the three cats and a Chip and Dale routine but it was my faulty tree stand engineering. One of the most important ornaments of all broke. </div>
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My grandmother and I painted ceramic ornaments together long before there was a Hobby Lobby and hers were always perfect. This was one of the first. Thankfully it was a clean break, I found the missing part and super glue did the trick. Saved for another year!</div>
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Holiday tip: More is better applies to trees. I put up three. Small, medium and large. After the collapsed first try I divided and conquered. Each tree got its own personality just glowed with love, sparkle and light. What more is there to Christmas, anyway?</div>
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I learned the meaning of faith in action from those who came into my life as answered prayers this year. A few people were Clarence to my Mr. Bailey this year, teaching me what Christmas should be. </div>
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These ladies top the list with their compassion, grace and indomitable spirit. When I think about whom I want to emulate, they come to mind. </div>
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Another person new to my life this year reminded me of the joy in giving for giving's sake, not for trying to impress or outspend. I got to play Santa for him, distributing gifts he bought for people he doesn't know just because. </div>
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It inspired me to do the same. Two families got bags full of gifts this year whom I barely know and who don't know it was me. </div>
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Honestly, that brought more joy to me than even baking cookies with these two did (though it was close). </div>
Their portrayals of Mary and a shepherd came pretty close, too.<br />
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After our church service last Sunday we went to theirs to watch her suck on her teeth like an old man (one front tooth gone, one loose, though two front teeth were <i>not</i> all she wanted for Christmas) and him sing <i>Gloria In Excelsis Deo</i> like a miniature Pavarotti.<br />
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Monday we took them shopping to buy Christmas presents for their parents (wait, for them? not for us? huh?), ate out, wrapped said presents (their sister is a master bow girl) and made cookies. We don't see them often, but I hope these little moments make an impression. <br />
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Our Christmas Eve service will be memorable, that's for sure. We were asked to come early and be ushers. I wore my new silk scarf that is shiny pale green on one side and shimmery red on the other with lots of fringe.<br />
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When we arrived, it was discovered that a dozen people had been asked to be ushers. We sorted that out - I thought - until just before the service started and someone else came and asked us to serve Communion. So when it came time to usher we sat a few beats until we got "the eye" and rushed up to do our job. <br />
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When it was Communion time eight of us came forward to do the job of four. On top of that, someone had to be dispatched to the kitchen for more bread and two wine goblets was nowhere near enough.<br />
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I served the overflow crowd bread while Jack stood as arm candy at the front of the line. We were all glad it was over, especially when we opened the doors and found it was snowing!<br />
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Christmas morning I made Jack his pie-spiced latte and we settle in to savor our tree. He opened lots of packages connected to his big gift (see <i>Home Makeover: Office Edition</i>) and I opened a giant box. A real sheepskin and a set of pearls!<br />
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After the tree we picked up someone with nowhere else to go and went to the community dinner at the Catholic school gym for which Jack helped cook nine turkeys. My dessert was this impromptu performance of several hymns by my mustachioed Pavarotti and his merry band (aka members of our church choir).<br />
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I am so grateful for so very much this year. Christmas illustrated the sweetness in our new life. So many of our prayers have been answered. As we look to a new year, I pray to be a vehicle for someone else's answered prayers. Amen.</div>
Coryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03926996295246260061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5853318655412185353.post-52193599893404368242012-10-09T06:03:00.001-07:002012-10-09T06:16:23.448-07:00His & Hers: Breakfast<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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On the left, we have hashbrowns, sausage and fried farm eggs.<br />
On the right, we have cantaloupe, cucumber, sunflower and flax seeds.<br />
Guess whose is whose?<br />
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I'm pretty sure men have evolved to only feel satisfied when eating something they could have killed on a hunt and women are satisfied most eating things they could have grown or gathered. At least, that's the way it seems in our house.<br />
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This was my first foray into raw food. Day 3 now. No day has been completely raw, but let's just say my birthday present to myself was a dehydrator. Last night it made me kale chips and dried cantaloupe. Right now it is making me banana chips and <a href="http://www.rawmazing.com/raw-blueberry-flax-pancakes/" target="_blank">pancakes</a>. </div>
Coryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03926996295246260061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5853318655412185353.post-86163992195352539482012-10-08T20:37:00.001-07:002012-10-09T06:15:16.342-07:00In the spotlight<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Jack was asked to perform a poem to introduce a TEDx Jackson Hole session. He wanted to do the newest in his repertoire (milk out yo ur nose funny) but it was too long for the time-sensitive event. Instead, he did "Larry the Banker" (merely humorous) which came in under a minute. <br />
"Most people get 15 minutes of fame. I got 50 seconds."<br />
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Coryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03926996295246260061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5853318655412185353.post-89389291750415813632012-06-17T07:15:00.000-07:002012-06-17T07:15:07.243-07:00Honey Do'sI have a talented husband. He could have been an engineer. He can see anything and figure out how to build it. The apple didn't fall far from the tree. His 93-year-old mother wishes she could come to Wyoming and help him rebuild this house. As she has done to many other homes before. By herself. <br />
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The problem is that when you have a talented husband such as mine it is easy to pile on the honey do's. A farmhouse table? No problem. Light fixtures? Yep. A custom bureau/closet? Sounds great. Homemade butcher block counters? Definitely. <br />
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You see where I am going with this. Where do I stop? How can any one man get all of this done?Coryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03926996295246260061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5853318655412185353.post-63505374070964952062012-05-30T05:44:00.006-07:002012-05-30T05:58:17.732-07:00Interior designWhat a fun toy! I discovered Homestyler this weekend and am having a great time playing with it. It will even do 3D! It doesn't have everything (the lineup of chairs will be a long banquette, the two woodstoves will be one large wood cookstove facing the hallway), and thought Jack would love it, I doubt we will have this many large pieces of leather furniture. Even so, what fun. On to the yard next!<br />
<iframe scrolling="no" src="http://www.homestyler.com/designerro/f5f2422f-88bb-4982-8cbf-6c34b4434052" style="width: 400px; height: 300px; border: 1px solid rgb(0, 0, 0);"></iframe><br />
You can see <a href="http://www.homestyler.com/designer/f5f2422f-88bb-4982-8cbf-6c34b4434052">better version here</a>, or try your own free: <a href="http://www.homestyler.com/designer">http://www.homestyler.com/designer</a>Coryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03926996295246260061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5853318655412185353.post-39218449552266095012012-05-26T11:53:00.003-07:002012-05-26T11:53:50.018-07:00<div style="float: right; margin-left: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/7816505@N06/7274714270/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7227/7274714270_970de5dc33_m.jpg" alt="" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" /></a><br /><span style="font-size: 0.9em; margin-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/7816505@N06/7274714270/">Untitled</a><br />Originally uploaded by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/7816505@N06/">coralinad</a></span></div>Joel Salatin enjoying Jack's poetry.<br clear="all" />Coryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03926996295246260061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5853318655412185353.post-33999778114689440122012-05-26T11:53:00.001-07:002012-05-26T11:53:05.330-07:00<div style="float: right; margin-left: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/7816505@N06/7274710198/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8020/7274710198_36c77fdf0c_m.jpg" alt="" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" /></a><br /><span style="font-size: 0.9em; margin-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/7816505@N06/7274710198/">Untitled</a><br />Originally uploaded by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/7816505@N06/">coralinad</a></span></div>Jack telling Joel Salatin he can't. produce grassfed beef as well as Wyoming producers do.<br clear="all" />Coryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03926996295246260061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5853318655412185353.post-7854829789881249992012-05-03T04:53:00.000-07:002012-05-03T04:57:06.409-07:00Simon the Zealot<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Jack got zealous for Easter this year. Well, for <a href="http://archives.umc.org/interior.asp?ptid=1&mid=2873" target="_blank">Maundy Thursday</a>. He was picked to play Simon the Zealot in our church's production of the Living Last Supper. It was his first play and he had a big monologue to memorize and even more difficult, he had to wear shorts!<br />
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And sandals!
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But thankfully, not this. This was reserved for Jesus. Which is why Jesus is invisible in all my pictures. Jesus as Cousin It doesn't photograph well. Or maybe his disappearance from the pictures is more of a spiritual metaphor. Oooh. Deep.<br />
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Jack had to grow a beard for the role, but it just couldn't keep up with the 'stache. And he is zealous about that mustache. (Note the atrocious wig on our friend Gene. Why? Why?)</div>
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The tableau. Jack is seated at right. Roger, playing Peter, looks like a Greek statue. So regal.</div>
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The cast in the afterglow of their success.<br />
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What a difference a year makes! We generally know we are always evolving but when you stop and look back in diaries, journals, calendars or, say, blogs, you are transported with complete clarity. <a href="http://librarianandcowboy.blogspot.com/2011/04/if-only-there-were-picture.html" target="_blank">This post from a year ago</a> brought me back into the skin of Cory, ca. 2011. <br />
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I was madly reading modern homesteading memoirs (left the big city behind for the more authentic pace of farm life) and planting a monster garden. I loved <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Slow-Love-Pajamas-Found-Happiness/dp/B007PM00GK/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1335628711&sr=1-1" target="_blank">Dominique Browning's</a> story of leaving New York City for Rhode Island and <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Better-Off-Flipping-Switch-Technology/dp/0060570059/ref=ntt_at_ep_dpt_1" target="_blank">Eric Brende'</a>s tale of doctoral research turned life change among the sort-of Amish. I read at least a dozen. Yet, there we were, surrounded by nothing by fields and animals. We <i>lived</i> the farm life, well, ranch life. <br />
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A year later we've made the opposite move from everyone in those books. From farm to town. We are surrounded by neighbors. Our dogs are fenced in and shushed. We try to remember to draw the curtains at night. The oxen and chickens have new homes. <br />
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And yet, we love it. We love being so close to town and feeling a part of the community. We can bounce home for dinner and back out for events, take evening classes, join activities. We have shifted from being apart to being a part.<br />
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Quite a change.<br />
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Reading that old blog post had me rolling around in the memories and reflecting on these changes until the very end, when I read the last line: "Green Acres is the life for me?"<br />
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I laughed out loud. God is funny. The name of our little subdivision here in suburbia? Green Acres.<br />
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Seriously.<br />
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Further proof that this was meant to be our home. <br />
</div>Coryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03926996295246260061noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5853318655412185353.post-76090133812503649642012-04-17T00:38:00.000-07:002012-04-29T04:36:08.824-07:00Back on track<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Phew! What a few months it has been! We have been without access to the Internet at home, so I've not been able to post. I'm sure more details will come, but in a nutshell we moved - and then moved again.<br />
The ranch where Jack worked (and we lived) split up last fall and we had to move quite quickly. We found a place to take our menagerie half an hour north of town where neither Internet or cellular service dared to roam and stayed there for six months. While there, we sold the oxen, moved Joker to a retirement home, gave away the chickens and sent Skip to live with relatives. A few weeks ago we closed on a house here in suburbia, a.k.a. the land of the roving children on 4-wheelers and the 8 minute commute. All we have left are the three cats, Mater and Sluggo. Our new home is a renovation project. Perhaps I should rewrite our bio for this blog. We no longer live on a cattle ranch, but now we're marriage under construction country folk trying to make it in town. Oy!<br />
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Let the adventures begin! <br />
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<br /></div>Coryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03926996295246260061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5853318655412185353.post-11118882992143157862011-10-10T15:26:00.000-07:002011-10-23T18:11:27.982-07:00His name is my name, too<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Jack is really John.<br />
For generations - since Adam and Eve, he says - the first male Schmidt has always been (and must always be) named John.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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Update: Jacob Alexander was born Oct. 11. He may not be a John, but he's a healthy happy grandson!<br />
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<br /></div>Coryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03926996295246260061noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5853318655412185353.post-14583321836372178422011-09-17T13:12:00.001-07:002011-09-17T13:32:24.985-07:00All that glitters is gold<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">There is an empty space at the end of my bed. A vacancy in the feline-formed depression in my comforter. <br />
<br />
It seems strange to leave a half-packed suitcase on the bed. Before, it was a nest to be curled up in. <br />
<br />
My clothes are cat-hair free today.<br />
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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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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! <br />
<br />
The scars from his leaps off my lap have faded now. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
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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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Goodbye, friend. Maybe no one else does, but I miss you. <br />
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="float: right; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 10px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/7816505@N06/4511466387/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="photo sharing"><img alt="" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2726/4511466387_59268dc358_m.jpg" style="border: 2px solid rgb(0, 0, 0);" /></a><br />
<span style="font-size: 0.9em; margin-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/7816505@N06/4511466387/"></a><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/7816505@N06/"><br />
</a></span></div></div></div>Coryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03926996295246260061noreply@blogger.com2