Sit, Mariah, Sit. Stay.

Spring is windy season in Wyoming. For days Jack has been doing his best Harve Presnell impression, walking around the house singing "They Called The Wind Mariah."

Yesterday he had to take his act on the road when the wind helped fan some spark and began blackening a stretch of sage between us and the highway. We don't know for sure, but assume a cigarette butt was the culprit.

Luckily, our house sits over a third of a mile from the road, so we weren't in any real danger. Especially because Ms. Mariah decided about then to have a nice rest.

A lady passing by on the highway called in the fire and Jack and Colonel went at it with shovels. 

 Before I made it even halfway down the driveway (with extra camera batteries in my pocket) I saw this:

 The firemen were amazing. So fast! I come from a long line of firemen so I realize the sacrifice and commitment they and their families make. It was strange, though, to be on the receiving end. They are the line between us and destruction.

Colonel was still going at it when they arrived:

 Traffic slowed a bit for a few minutes, but they made quick work of the smoldering flames. Which was very, very good since on my way back to the house the wind came up and was so fierce I had to wear two hoods to keep it from coming in one ear and going out the other.

All in all, we are very grateful for the wind stopping, for the lady who called the fire department, for Colonel and his shovel and most of all for our unknown neighbors who gave their Sunday afternoon up to save our fields.

Salt Lake love: Good eats

Oh, the eating we will do. This is how I think about any trip out of Wyoming. Salt Lake and Denver are the closest major cities, but though we may get there fairly often, I try to never eat the same place twice. Too many good choices!

This trip we discovered Ruth's Diner in Emigration canyon where the biscuits actually pleased the biscuit connoisseur (as did the homemade raspberry jam). The freshly-squeezed grapefruit juice made me pretty happy, too.

Everything there was wonderful, even the phone booth we had to cram into because the waiting room was full.

While Jack was entertaining folks at the IDOS convention, I found gems like Frida's Bistro:

Where this guy stared at me while I ate. 

Mazza, yummy Middle Eastern fare

(notice I also like eating at odd times when I have the place nearly to myself):

And then there was this gourmet grocer, Liberty Heights Fresh, where the cheesemonger helped me select a local chevre that had been mixed with apricot preserves and honey. I dipped two dates in it for dessert. YUM.

Oh, how good food makes me happy. Like the fresh (this morning) egg omelet with caramelized onions, spinach and feta my honey made me for breakfast today.

Nature taking its course

First, let me say if I could have stopped this from happening I would have. I tried running them off. I tried separating them. I tried scaring them. Nothing distracted their focus on each other. After several minutes I gave up and went for the camera.

I hope this isn't too distasteful for anyone, but it so clearly fits the mission of this blog (former PETA member hosts cockfight??) I had to share.

The backstory is that Charlie (left) is older. Charlie became the second rooster on our place, submissive to Rocky, our old comb-less, one-eyed Plymouth Barred Rock rooster. Rocky was the best. He warned the hens of danger, kept them together and never bothered us. Charlie kept his place and so we kept him. He had a brother who harassed the hens and therefore went to live elsewhere.

Refuge under the horse trailer (where they can't jump up).

The other rooster is part of a unique hatch of three: two hens and a rooster. They have stayed together ever since they were chicks. Almost all of the time they roost in the barn instead of the chicken house. Separate but equal?

Last week, we found Rocky's body near the barn. We don't know what happened, but he was old. I like to think that was it. Please don't ruin my illusions. I like them. Besides, how much more reality can I take than a cockfight in my driveway? Anyway, apparently this is where it gets very Lion King, chicken style.

There was a lot of this.

And a lot of this.

Probably for the benefit of these chicks who watched the whole thing from behind the fence. Like ultimate cage fighting in reverse.

At any rate, it appears Charlie did not appreciate Samuel moving in on his territory and decided to express his feelings on the matter.

At first I blamed Charlie since he seemed to be the aggressor, but when I ran him off, the younger rooster went after him. Without any fences, they were easily able to avoid me and focus on each other.

Minutes went by. Many minutes. This was no flash in the pan, let's get it out of our system and be done with it. This was menace with meaning.

Blind dog watches cockfight. He was totally confused, but pretty sure they weren't supposed to be doing that.

Now here is where it got amazing. I was sure they were just going to keep going at each other until one couldn't fight anymore. Ugly. Then from around the trailer comes Skip. He bounds into the middle and does I 'm not sure what. Whatever it was, they immediately go their separate ways. End of story. I have a picture, but I still don't know what happened. Animals are phenomenal.

The results.

Crowing about his "victory" to the heifers.

 

The prize? 

As soon as it was over she came running over to him. 

Florence Nightingale?  

Pink lady to his T-Bird? 

Perhaps I am projecting too much on to this?

His and hers vacations: day one

Jack and I spent the weekend in Salt Lake City, though his tale of his time there is far different from mine. We did what many like us (meaning in love but with our own set of interests) do when traveling: divide and enjoy.

We were there for the International Dutch Oven Society's World Championship Cook-off, where Jack was the on-site entertainment, spouting poetry to draw crowds into their corner of the International Sportsman's Expo, where the IDOS event is held.

The first couple of years we went I stayed, but I'll confess the folding chairs, camo-clad crowd, taxidermy decor and excruciating testosterone level were not my idea of a good time. They aren't for Jack, either, but for him the cooking and the Dutch oven bonding made up for it. For me, staying meant no time to appreciate being in the city.

So Friday morning I dropped him off at the back door and went off on my merry way. Stop one: Horse Crazy to find some breeches that weren't eight sizes too big. So sorry I didn't take a picture of the corgi puppy they had in the store. She was precious. All ears and feet. Scored a great Ariat vest from their consignment section. Exercised great restraint in the tack and footwear departments.

A store full of English riding apparel, tack and accoutrement? Not even in Jack's alley.


Stop two: Shopping. I know most women would probably use exclamation points for shopping, but I am NOT a fan of trying on clothes. I do what I have to do. For 15 years I have been shopping in the same store. Buying the same brands. I'm quite at a loss now, but I have to have new clothes. Nothing fits. I tried on approximately eighty-six thousand items and bought four.

I ask you - does your husband enjoy clothes shopping with you? I didn't think so.


That chore done, it was on to the fun stuff. Consignment stores! The treasures Joan at for the love of a house finds inspired me to do some of my own digging. In case you are ever in SLC and have the same predilection, here are some places to try: Now and Again, Secondhand Chic, and Vintage Butterfly.

As for Jack's day? He brought a woman to tears (of laughter) with "The Bra", noshed on the competitor's fare and bonded with Dutch oven celebrity Cee Dub.

Good day had by all. :)

The welcoming committee

Sláinte!

Every St. Patrick's Day I think back to the one I perhaps could have spent differently. It was 1997; I was studying abroad at University College Cork in southern Ireland for the semester and enrolled in 7 or 8 classes, including 20th century Irish history, Modern Irish, Irish folklore, Myth, History and Hagiography in Irish history - you get the picture.

Ua Flaitbeartaig pub, pronounced O'Flaherty

My Irish ancestors would have been proud. Well, except perhaps of my Irish. The priest met me every morning with a glare and it never got better. I do not have "the ear" for language, especially one where "dh" is pronounced "v."

I, you, he, she, we, you (pl), they

Michael Collins had just come out and I saw it in Ireland which of course made it more powerful. I saw bullet holes in the Dublin post office. I kissed the Blarney Stone twice (does that negate the effect or multiply it?) I watched curling and drank plenty of the national drink. Living with two music majors, I tried playing a bodhran and tin whistle. I learned to eat tuna on with buttered bread. Everything was "grand" and "brilliant."

Guinness for Strength, Bulmer's for fun!

As much as possible, I drank in (heh) Irish culture. So what did I do on St. Paddy's Day, that day of all days??

I left.

Spring break in Ireland is wonderful. Nearly a whole month off. And it began March 13. The dilemma: stay and be in Ireland for St. Patrick's Day or begin my tour of the continent? It was tough, but ultimately two factors led me away.

The Daly bridge near campus

First, I was itching to see more. When would I ever have the freedom to spend a month traveling around Europe? I had a Eurail pass burning in my pocket; why sit in my my flat watching Australian soap operas when I could be eating baguettes and brie on the banks of the Seine?

The wall of my room;
note the Irish study sheets my friend made to help me pass the class.

Second, believe it or not, St. Patrick's Day is more of an American holiday than an Irish one. Or an Irish diaspora holiday, I should say. Anywhere Irish emigrants ended up does St. Patrick's Day up big. In Ireland, however, March 17 is more of a religious holiday. Remember, St. Patrick brought Christianity to the Emerald Isle. At least it used to be religious. Now the descendants of those Irish emigrants come to Ireland and expect to find Chicago plus Boston plus, plus, plus!


When I was there the bigger cities were accommodating the tourist expectations and having parades, etc., but villages were quiet. I actually ended up spending St. Patrick's day in London, one of the diaspora communities, but didn't even have a pint that day. I do recall perhaps doing something rude in the general direction of Oliver Cromwell's statue at parliament, but we don't have to discuss that.

 

Cromwell's statue

My Irish friends tell me I wouldn't recognize Ireland today, with the boom and now bust of the Celtic Tiger, but I have so many memories to treasure on this day on which we're all a little bit Irish. 

Hi to you, too

A good friend of ours who loves animals was walking through a parking lot recently and spotted two dogs in the back of a truck who desperately wanted to say hello.

One dog was a Jack Russell terrier and the other was a Welsh Corgi. They wiggled and jumped and generally expressed their appreciation for his visit. He greeted them with a pat on each head and said, "Hi, Jack. Hi, Cory."

Snack bar

Before:

After: