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!

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.

Baby pictures

Close to the bone

We got up before dawn today to begin July in a fluttery cave of hairnets and booties, needles and nerves, and sterile everything.

It was a day labeled 'surgery' on the calendar. He teases the nurses, razzes the doctors and gives me his wedding ring to hold.

Sitting with all the other anxious families I hear snippets of their stories and feel little veins burst in my heart.

A wife, on the phone to her daughter: "They had to zap him to get his heart going again, but he's fine now. No, I don't know what they'll do if it happens again."

A grandmother to her sister: "We thought her last brain surgery would be it. I can't believe she has to go through this again. Those poor kids."

We are there for a procedure so routine that no overnight stay is required. There is risk, of course; there is always risk with general anesthesia, but for us there is certainty. This is nearly guaranteed to work. Tomorrow will begin a new, pain-free chapter in life for us. What will it bring for them?

I send love and prayers for grace and hope to the patients, their families, and prayers for guidance and strength to the doctors and nurses. But most of all, I send gratitude. I fill balloons with appreciation and float them to the heavens. Today, grace comes to me through a short, spiky-haired young doctor's pronouncement: "He's doing great."

"Wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving." 

- Kahlil Gibran

Dinner out of a can

No, not Campbell's. Not Chunky. Not even Healthy Choice.

A cream can! Remember cream cans? We had them floating around the house as stand-in end tables. Maybe you hoisted them straight from cow to cooler. Now we're likely to see them only in an antique store or in an old barn.

I'm not sure where this one began life. Or even the day. It looked clean, however; and our host is the most immaculate cowboy I know so we had no worries.

This was an experimental dinner, testing out what sounded like a cool, easy way to cook a lot of vegetables for a crowd. I was wary. Very wary. So hairy-eyeball wary, in fact, that I suggested they scrap the vegetable idea altogether. I know. Me. The ex-vegetarian. But come on - we're talking about a crowd of cowpokes. The beans, beef and sourdough would keep them pleased as punch. A cowpunch. (Ha! Sorry; I amuse myself.)

Sometimes I amuse a cowpunch, too.

We sat and watched the pot boil for a while. This wasn't as boring as it sounds, though. We had a penny to watch!

See, the only way we could tell that the veggies had begun to boil was a tiny stream of steam. Try seeing a stream of steam.

See it?

Yeah? Well, you have better vision than we do.

So Jack's idea was to plop a penny on top of the tiny air vent hole. When the steam pressure built up enough, he said, the penny would move.

My, but my eyeballs are getting hairy.

We sat on old molasses tubs around the fire (did I mention it was nearly 90 degrees outside?)and pretended to get caught up while each of us sneaked a peek at the penny.

The anticipation was fierce, lemme tell ya.

Eventually it happened and we all squealed. Ok, maybe just I squealed. Anyway, the grub was good. 

For those interested in the specifics, the pot contained 5 pounds of red potatoes, 1 head of green cabbage, 2 red onions, a bag of frozen corn on the cob, some Tony Chacheres seasoning and a little water. Half of it fed 9 of us with several trips for seconds. It took around 45 minutes to boil sitting on a pipe stuck in the embers of an elm wood fire.

Bon Appétit, or as we say around here, Good Eats!

The dog days of summer

The heat has finally reached us here in the high desert, not that it is bothering these cuties who get to live under ground near a local rest stop.

Bomb, you were a dear

Someone took Mater's favorite toy.

With apologies for destroying your illusions, little ranch work is done on horseback anymore. Most of it is done with four-wheelers. We have a few here; Jack's favorite was an ancient Bombadier workhorse. As soon as he heard it start, Mater was on the scene and clambering on. He rode and rode and rode, chasing cows, irrigating, checking heifers - whatever. He sat or laid on the back as happy as could be.

It was always parked in this spot, just outside our door. When we got home one afternoon last week it was simply gone. Someone had come up the long driveway, removed the toolboxes (aka milk crates) from the back and driven away. We're perplexed. If only Mater were a bloodhound.

And the worst news is that the one Jack rides now doesn't have room for Mater.

Ambitions of gardening grandeur

I wasn't going to have a garden this year. In October, when I officially gave up on harvesting a single pepper from four plants, accepted that a lone cucumber would be it from six plants and dug out the four inch posts that had been my corn stalks, I threw up my hands.

"Fine, grasshoppah; you win," I said.They were a plague. Every shape and size. Mandibles of steel devouring nearly everything in sight. (Including the alfalfa, but that's another story.) I grabbed a handful of dirt and declared, "As God as my witness, I will not garden again!"

Famous last words.

Garden 2010 was a nice, tight little number. She was about 17x40, had a couple of winter squash and pumpkin plants, a few zucchini and summer squash, a smattering of tomato plants, four cabbages, the aforementioned peppers and cucumbers. Nothing fancy. The Ford Taurus of gardens. 

If you looked at our yard this year, you'd think Verizon was pushing an upgrade. Jack and Colonel got all excited with their plow and new fence and I got a bit overzealous with my seedlings.

The new space is more than double last year's. We've gone from approximately 680 square feet to around 1700. I have 16 winter squash and pumpkin plants, 86 potato plants, 400 onions, 35 tomato plants, 16 cabbage plants, Brussel sprouts, Swiss chard, beets, pole beans, eight or 10 zucchini plants... you get the picture.

This was partially strategic. The more I plant, the more likely the grasshoppers will leave something for us to eat. Right?