Code of the West

Err-runs...

2011-12-08T18:56:00.000-08:00

Me: Please go get the electrical cord for the hip cooling unit, its next to my side of the bed.

George, back from upstairs: Here ya go!

Me: That's to my Kindle.

George, back from upstairs: Here...

Me: That's to my laptop.

George, back from upstairs: THIS?

Me: That's to the cell phone...

George: well, god dammit...

Me: Its okay... Can I just have an ice pack from the freezer?

Hip, Hip, Hooray...Not!

2011-11-22T22:42:00.000-08:00

I'm trying to bring crutches into the world of Haute couture... one gimpy slap step at a time...(sigh)

Google image

I have been on walking aids recently, first a walker, then crutches. I have been off my horses,too. I am not happy about that. I haven't even been able to longe or play with them for fear of injuring myself further.

Three years ago, thinking I was in my twenties, not my fifties, I overdid the leg presses at the gym. The result was soreness that turned into tendonitis which turned into bursitis of the hip. Chronic, painful, sleep disturbing, radiating-to-my-foot bursitis. I couldn't even lay on my affected side or wear snug pants.

So-called conservative therapies either didn't help at all or helped only a little. Those included massage therapy, warm water movement, iontophoresis, electric stimulation, and injections of corticosteroids at the site.

Finally, my orthopedic surgeon recommended a procedure to remove the bursa, a surgery that is only done by a couple doctors, and those in a city over a hundred miles away. After a ton of research, I agreed. Last week, I had the surgery, and now I am on crutches and off my horses.

I am not a languishing sort of person, not one to enjoy this interlude drooping and clickety-clack staggering from bed to couch. I am ready to be all done with this.

Lesson: when it comes to weight training at my age: less is more...

Learning

2011-11-12T17:44:00.000-08:00

Google image

An eastern teaching says 'When the learner is ready, the teacher will appear'. That doesn't mean a miraculous appearance, but a readiness to learn. Lessons are all around us every day. When the soil of our mind and heart is ready, the seed of learning can sprout. I struggle with 'keeping myself ready to learn the lesson', open enough to take it in and apply it to my life.

New Life, for Some

2011-10-28T20:29:00.001-07:00

My husband is 'semi-retired' now. Meaning he hunts and fishes for four to six weeks at a time, then returns to a regular work schedule when he is home, usually 8-5. Hmmm.

This is not working for me. I am alone during the dark autumn evenings when he travels, and have him around for dirtying the kitchen and going to bed early for work when he is home.

It's not like I can have a network of friends to spend time with and then abandon when he decides to be home, or just go and do my own thing whether he is here or not. I am alone, in the worst way, except if he was dead, I mean.

I am not a solitary person. I really like conversation, cooking and visiting with someone everyday. But, suddenly, since June, I have been alone more than I have been a part of a couple. I don't think I like this...

Clean Up On Aisle Life!

2011-10-26T19:15:00.000-07:00

I feel like I should be a character in the children's book 'Everybody Poops'. I would be the clean up person, the poop scooper, the carpet cleaner, the gagging glove-clad follower of the parade...

No such character exists, of course, but it should. And, it would be me.

My grandpugs are visiting. One of them, the youngest, has had some, uhmm, gastric upset lately. I'm talking the visible foggy paint peeling gas and copious amounts of semi-soft crap all over the house. I bought new carpet when we moved into this place, and I have tried to limit the exposure to nasties and toxins.

Suddenly, though, it is as if I live in a land mine area full of unusual smells and scary tarry piles.

I am thinking of diapers...

You've Got Mail

2011-10-15T14:18:00.000-07:00

My husband got more than a laugh out of seeing an AARP membership solicitation addressed to me in the mail. He got downright gleeful, all 'ha-ha-ha' over it.

That lasted until I sorted through the pile of mail and discovered a meaningful missive just for him: a pre-paid plan for cremation...

Email and Facebook etiquette

2011-09-07T17:51:00.000-07:00

Everything one writes on Facebook or sends in an email is just a substitute for the spoken work. In other words, if we send it to others or post it on Facebook, we have stated it as fact and as something we support. If we pass on an untruth or unconfirmed statements as 'fact', we are both advancing another's agenda (unwittingly, I hope!), or undermining our own credibility.

We only get one chance with each of our acquaintances at being a person of character and truth. If we value that, we have a duty to verify information before we hit 'forward' or 'send'. If we don't, we lose that chance. I value my credibility with you. I therefore promise to you that I will check out the things I send to you as best I can to confirm their truth, as I have done in the past. Because I know two things: 1) I value my credibility in your eyes, and 2) I value you and your time more than to make you read untruths or rumors because my name is attached to them.

I further promise that if you find that something I have sent you is wrong, untrue or offensive, I will appreciate your feedback and will not be offended for pointing it out to me, because I know you do so out of love and respect for me.

Internet communication has been around long enough that it is time for personal responsibility. If we utilize the technology, we owe it to others to use it responsibly, correctly and with good manners.

Here are some rules we should adopt that might prove useful for Facebook and emails:

(You won't easily find these in books or on websites covering a modern version of etiquette, but they should be part of everyone's introduction to the computer. In fact, I'd lobby for them to be printed on every computer.)

1. Send only what you have checked out and that you want to have associated with your name and character. If you don't know, or don't have the time to check it out: don't send it!!

2. If you regularly forward almost all or all of your emails, shame on you! You are not thinking of your friends or what might really interest them; you are mindlessly cluttering their inboxes and taking up their valuable time. That is not 'staying in touch' nor is it communicating, it is dumping.

3. If you are forwarding items, be responsible and delete the addresses of others you are sending it to. Send it to yourself and put everyone else in the Bcc (blind courtesy copy) box so that personal email addresses aren't out there for others to exploit.

4. If you think something is worth passing on, take the time to make it appear polite and presentable. In other words, colored text, giant text, different fonts, exclamations, capitals, scrolling, emoticons, all that 'stuff' is the equivalent of screaming at your reader. Yes, all those buttons can be used, but SHOULD they? It is irritating to be forced to scroll down, down, down, having one's chain yanked, reading one. GIANT. red. green. blue. word. at. a. time. Make the point, get to the punch line, and let your reader off the hook. They are certain to have other emails to read. If we hogged a conversation in the same manner, we would get slapped or rejected socially, probably both.

If this confirms your current practice, you are a mature, informed and considerate user of modern communication tools. (But, I bet you know someone who could use this email.) If, though, you think this might describe you even a little, rather than take offense, think honestly about your communication with others. I'll bet, even if no one told you directly, someone is thinking you need a primer, and this is it.

Becoming Real...

2011-08-22T07:00:00.000-07:00

Google image of the illustration by William Nicholson from the book by Margery Williams, published 1922

This is one of my all-time favorite sections of the book The Velveteen Rabbit. I am in a pensive and thoughtful mood, pondering the concept of becoming a better, more real person. Enjoy...

"What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"

"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."

"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.

"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."

"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"

"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in your joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."

"I suppose you are real?" said the Rabbit. And then he wished he had not said it, for he thought the Skin Horse might be sensitive. But the Skin Horse only smiled.

"The Boy's Uncle made me Real," he said. "That was a great many years ago; but once you are Real you can't become unreal again. It lasts for always."

A Young Woman Leaves Home

2011-08-21T11:28:00.001-07:00

Seattle, where a piece of my heart will live

Google image

Today, my daughter moved hundreds of miles away from home to Seattle. She graduated college with honors after attending on a full ride scholarship. She has gone from being a quiet private high schooler to a strong, wickedly witty young woman with friends surrounding her as she herds them to outdoor challenges. She radiates confidence and energy. She is fully prepared for the big world away from her small town roots.

But, still. I am at once sad to my bones at her leaving, happy for what life will gift her with, and pleased that she feels free to go. But, still. She is my baby, the last of the brood. She will be no longer within quick reach to rescue or simply to touch. She will be hours away. I will no longer have the expectation of the step at the door being hers. I will no longer see her burst through the back door, Pug and laundry basket balanced precariously, saying breathlessly, 'Hi, Mom! I got some time so we came down!'

I clearly remember my mother's sadness when I left home at seventeen. I, too, felt the heaviness of the moment, not without a little fear. And, I felt sorry for my mother. She seemed so old, so vulnerable, so unhealthy. And, she was. Not really old, but worn out by poverty and hard work and disappointment. But she was vulnerable and unhealthy, and I felt like I was abandoning and betraying her. I cried all the way to my new apartment near the university I was to attend.

I have broken the cycle of poverty and abuse in yet another way with my own daughter's leave-taking. She knows I am whole, and healthy, and busy, and involved in my own life. She need not fear for me, or feel like a traitor to me in order to seek her own dreams. And, that is another gift I can offer my children. I have given them roots, and now I offer wings.

Fly high, my sweet child. I'll be here, always.

2011-08-12T19:33:00.000-07:00

(from Journal of Ravensayrie)

All I pay my psychiatrist is the cost of feed and hay, and he'll listen to me any day.

~Author Unknown

Touching Sage

2011-08-11T16:38:00.000-07:00

Today, my mare and I spent some time together as she quietly chewed her grain. We stood in the warm afternoon sun, relaxed in our closeness. I began stroking her back, repetitive long firm touches with the flat of my hands on both sides of her spine. After a while, I switched to a gentle slow circular motion with my fingertips. Sage began to close her eyes.

I worked my way up her neck, feeling areas of tightness melt away under my massage. She sighed deeply and leaned into my body. I traced the lines of her legs from shoulder to hoof, from hip to hoof, again and again. Sage swayed in place to a gentle rhythm of her own. She curved her neck around me and drank in my scent, gentle lips nibbling my skin lightly. Then, we just stood there, my hands on her back, her head pressing me to her body.

At last, a huge sigh escaped her and she returned to her grain, gently blowing a sigh from her nose. I patted her, said, 'Good girl' and left. When I turned to look at her, she was watching me. I smiled and left her alone.

My hands still felt hot and electric from her touch.

Reaching An Abused Horse

2011-08-10T13:09:00.000-07:00

I have two new horses. They came to me from the same owner. One is a gelding, a Tennessee Walking Horse/Quarter Horse cross. He is Mr. Big, a big, bold, outgoing character with a curious nature and a desire to please. The other, a Tennessee Walking Horse mare, is reserved, quiet, watchful. It is the mare that intrigues me and sends me to the pasture to watch her and think about her personality.

I was told that she was abused by the man who bought her as a youngster from the breeder. That, in his slow downward spiral into mental illness, he lashed out at those under his control, his horses bearing the greatest burden of his wrath. Hospitalization and medication were forced on him, relocating to new homes was the fate of the horses.

Sage (the mare's stable name) went to the home of a wonderful woman who loves her horses, spends hours every day grooming, riding, wrangling them into and out of separate paddocks and stalls. She french braided Sage's tail and bathed her with lavender soap. Under her loving hands, Sage learned to be still for ministrations and attention. I was told to 'kiss her face a lot, she loves it'.

I saw something different, though. Not a horse that loved the attention, but an abuse survivor who was walled off, holding herself closely to herself, standing stock still to avoid gaining attention. As a counselor in the mental health field, I saw the same thing in survivors of domestic or sexual abuse. Sage's stillness and frozen acquiescence impacted me more than if she had thrown her head or backed away. It was as if she knew she should want this but could not allow herself to trust or let down her guard.

It made me not want to hold her head to me, to not kiss her stone still face. It made me want to give her the space she needs without me invading her closely held defenses. It made me want to gain her trust, to reach her openly and honestly, when she was ready to receive that caress without fear. It made me want to learn more about horses in general and her in particular so that I could be a partner in her reawakening to a mutual relationship.

I asked a trusted friend who is an exceptional horsewoman and trainer to meet Sage and give me her thoughts. Our impressions were identical. She pointed out the specific body language that I merely sensed, horse language that validated my assessment. What I have is an introverted, damaged horse who holds herself away from further pain. She is never violent, angry or hostile, never kicks, bites or rears, she just remains within a shell, remote.

My job will be to reach her, to get her to trust me, to let me lead her out of her remote place of mental survival and into a full relationship with me and other humans. To help her learn to trust again, to learn to breathe and relax.

I will take you on this journey with me, reader, for you to learn as I do, the language of learning and growing and pain and recovery. For my horse and for me, an adult survivor of physical abuse.

Tips for being a useful person

2011-06-02T16:25:00.000-07:00

Reprinted from Loving the Simple Things, at http://tolivetolaughtolove.blogspot.com/

I don't think the principals behind paleo, primal, and self-experimentation stop at nutrition. I like to think that people could benefit from application of these ideals to all areas of life. And so I ask you: are you a useful person? If you take a trip to the beach and want to start a fire, can you? A lot of people quite simply aren't useful. They can talk your ear off about TV shows. Some can even get as deep as music, philosophy, religion, and literature. But actual usefulness? Increase your ability to do daily tasks and truly succeed at daily life? Nope. So as a public service, here is a brief and by no means inclusive list of things you should learn to make yourself a more useful person.

Swimming.
Recognizing drowning (it doesn't look like the movies) and being able to save and or resuscitate drowning victims.
Gardening.
Harvesting.
Preserving food.
Fishing.
Hunting.
Cleaning kills.
Cooking, especially without recipes. Knowledge of common cooking substitutions are useful too.
Sprinting and long distance running (to escape, to catch, to hunt).
Fire building.
First aid, both advanced and wilderness.
Child care.
Basic finance and investment knowledge.
Basic knowledge of the law and rights in your country (and any country you're likely to visit).
The confidence and ability to barter.
Driving, both automatic and manual.
Driving a boat, jet skis, snow mobiles, and motorcycles.
Basic anatomy and physiology.
Common childhood illnesses and injuries and their treatments.
How to cut wood.
Basic farm skills, like riding horses, milking cows and goats, and stacking hay.
How to change a tire.
Basic car things, like hitching and backing a trailer, jump starting a car, and getting out of mud.
Basic emergencies like how to help a choking victim, how to prevent and manage shock, and to not move a person with a possible neck injury.
Basic sewing repairs.
Laundry knowledge, like how to remove stains and keep fabrics lasting longer.
Household problems, like resetting breakers, checking the pilot light, and fixing leaky faucets.

How to paint a room (a *good* job).
Basic landscaping, like pruning plants, mowing, edging, pressure washing, and rototilling.
How to iron.
How to use a grill.
Basic animal care, like nutrition, checking for cysts, clipping nails, bathing, and checking for and removing ticks.
Tie a proper knot in a variety of situations.
Use a gun effectively and SAFELY.
Clear a room.
Counter a rip current in the ocean. Better yet, be able to detect an undertow before going in.
Find good water when needed.
Tie a tie.
Parallel park.
Ride a bike, and do simple repairs.
Use a camera.
Basic woodworking. If you can't build a chicken coop, you can't do much.
Take someone's temperature.

So that's it for now. Feel free to chime in with more! Some of these are everyday skills, some of them aren't. All of them make you useful.

Servicing Our Loved Ones: I Am a Giver

2011-05-28T23:21:00.000-07:00

How do you service your loved ones?

I am listing some of the things I do:

food (immediate cooking and preserving for later use)

laundry

transport

companionship

massage

editing

advocacy

laundry

interpreting

medical advice

listening

support

money

advice

sympathy

presence

touch

wisdom

acceptance

training

The list could go on and on, but these are the most common. Do they appreciate it? Sometimes. Do they get the extent of the effort? No.

I am sure that the full impact or realization will only happen when they give in this way to others. For some of the adults, this probably will never happen. I can only hope for a whiff of appreciation. For the kids and young adults, I can only hope that life provides them an opportunity to give and to learn to service relationships. It is a gift to others, a delicate balance between making others happy and still preserving the self, and one's own happiness.

I am the adult child of a chaotic, violent, alcoholic household, and my tendency is to give and give and give. Until I am exhausted, resentful, hurt and confused. Don't go to that point. That is my advice.

Give for your own reasons. For love, for calm, for relief from pain in another, for deepening a relationship. Never for validation or to gain approval. Therein lies the trap of subservience and resentment.

Time Passes, Children Grow Older, I'm Getting Older, Too

2011-05-14T20:00:00.000-07:00

From standing in a muddy hole under a crooked goal with a jersey sizes too big to breathtaking saves for a professional team wearing the best gear available, my son has grown up.

What I wouldn't give to go back, just for a little while, to the time I wrapped him in a warmed towel after a hot bath to remove the mud, and read him to sleep.

As the song goes:

Well, I've been afraid of changing

Cause I've built my life around you

But time makes you bolder

Children get older

I'm getting older, too...

The World Goes On, But You're Not There: What to do?

2011-05-09T14:58:00.000-07:00

From http://eternal-earthbound-pets.com/

Notice of Rate Increase: Due to the increased activity associated with the May 21, 2011 Rapture prophesy we have increased our service rates for all new contracts submitted as of 1/13/11.

April 1, 2011: Illinois and Iowa have now been added to our service area.

You've committed your life to Jesus. You know you're saved. But when the Rapture comes what's to become of your loving pets who are left behind? Eternal Earth-Bound Pets takes that burden off your mind.

We are a group of dedicated animal lovers, and atheists. Each
Eternal Earth-Bound Pet representative is a confirmed atheist, and as such will still be here on Earth after you've received your reward. Our network of animal activists are committed to step in when you step up to Jesus.

We are currently active in 26 states, employing 40 pet rescuers. Our representatives have been screened to ensure that they are atheists, animal lovers, are moral / ethical with no criminal background, have the ability and desire to rescue your pet and the means to retrieve them and ensure their care for your pet's natural life.

We currently cover the following states:
Maine,New Hampshire, Vermont, Massachusetts, Connecticut, Rhode Island, Wisconsin, Minnesota, Michigan, Arkansas, Mississippi, Tennessee, Kentucky, West Virginia, Colorado, Oklahoma, Kansas, Washington, Oregon, Idaho, Montana, North Carolina, Georgia, Alabama, Illinois, Iowa.

Our service is plain and simple; our fee structure is reasonable.
For $135.00 we will guarantee that should the Rapture occur within ten (10) years of receipt of payment, one pet per residence will be saved. Each additional pet at your residence will be saved for an additional $20.00 fee. A small price to pay for your peace of mind and the health and safety of your four legged and feathered friends.

Unfortunately at this time we are not equipped to accommodate all species and must limit our services to dogs, cats, birds, rabbits, and small caged mammals. [Please note: we can now offer rescue services for horses, camels, llamas and donkeys in NH,VT, ID and MT ]

Thank you for your interest in Eternal Earth-Bound Pets. We hope we can help provide you with peace of mind.

Blogger's note:

Also, see: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bVL84rRnrhs

A Real Cowboy

2011-05-07T13:32:00.000-07:00

This boy sounds so young. Makes me realize that thirteen on a remote ranch in Montana and thirteen in urban L.A. is further apart than miles. As are the values...

Sick and Tired of Being Sick and Tired

2011-05-04T10:33:00.000-07:00

Not well. Under the weather. Sick. Had better days. Feelin' rough. Feelin' like shit. Not myself. Manifesting clinical signs of disease. However you want to say it, I feel cruddy. I am sick. I am: e) all of the above. And damn tired of it. Here, in the second week.

I run out of breath when I shower, and have to rest up after. I go to my knees coughing when I drag my dirty laundry behind me to the laundry room. I cough episodically all night long. I cough throughout the day. I cough until I get light headed and have to kneel or sit.

Bronchitis, pneumonia, sinusitis, herpes simples I outbreak on my upper lip. Not one or two. Or three. The big four; full house; royal flush. But that means I get to take all the good medication and have all the great side-effects as a result. Red, inflamed nose. Nausea. Loss of appetite. Blotchy face. Nice zit on the chin (kick me, why don't ya?). And, I am sure, eventually, a lovely yeast infection.

It's a great day to be me. It's a great day on the farm. Won't you be my neighbor?

April Rainbow, aka Rainey

2011-05-02T10:50:00.001-07:00

I now have a horse, a registered Anglo-Arabian mare, 11 years old, 15.2 hh, owned by only one other person, her breeder, a woman. Her dam raced, and is registered at the Jockey Club. She comes from million dollar winning lineage.

I have been sick with bronchial pneumonia for over a week, and, in my first outing from the house in over a week, except for the doctor's office, I went to the livestock auction. Just to be in a different place, one that smelled of horses. I parked close, being unable to ambulate very far without gasping for breath and getting light headed. Slowly, I walked in the warm sun to the holding pens behind the sales arena building. Horses and people and the voices of both enveloped me like an old quilt. I leaned against a gate to rest. Then, I strolled the wide aisle between paddocks.

I saw a gelding that looked promising. He was sound, and fit, and healthy and unflappable. And I flapped him, slapping his loins, yanking on his cinch, pulling his tail, checking his teeth and hooves. He just took it. Hmm, maybe I'd see if he fetched much money... Then, I wandered to the next, and the next, and the next paddock.

I was suddenly wracked by a coughing spell, leaving me light headed and weak. Eventually, I moved on to the next pen, thinking I better go home and to bed pretty soon.

It was weird meeting this horse at the auction. She strained against her lead rope, pushing her head through other people who were looking at her, and tried to reach me. She kept sniffing my mouth, and then laid her forehead and soft nose along my body. Soothing, like she knew I was sick. She just 'held' me that way for a little while. Instead of going home, I made my way into the sales arena and sat down in the front of the audience.

She was brought in, and held herself with dignity and calm. Then, I coughed again. She turned her head in my direction, taking a step toward me before her rider took her the other way. But, still, she turned her head, watching me. A couple of times, she held my gaze, I am sure of it, and I am not starry-eyed that way. She kept her ears forward through it all, a good sign.

Throughout the bidding, I actually shook my head 'no' twice to indicate that I was not going to continue, but, next round, I found my hand up. I was strangely calm, too. Let me make this clear: I did NOT want a mare, I did NOT want a nongaited horse, I did NOT want an auction horse. Yet I ended up with one.

As I watched her move in the arena, smoothly, surely; side passing, backing, stopping abruptly, I thought about her color; 'she's like cinnamon, or paprika, or, I got it: copper!' Not the new shiny stuff, the weathered, been there/done that copper.

As I stood to go pay for her, I took one step and something caught my eye. It was a penny, lying nearby, dusty and with a little mud crowning Lincoln's head. It is now glued in her file, on the page written by her former owner, saying she is a 'good girl'.

Then came the work of bringing her home. My sister came to help. I could not have done it alone. I was too weak to even face the locks on the shop and the big sliding doors leading to my horse trailer back at home. But, we got her home uneventfully. She loaded right up. (That, any horse person will tell you, is worth at least a hundred dollars). Home to meet Sonny and Buddy, the retired old gentlemen geldings that live on my farm.

Even during the excitement of meeting the boys, she came back to check on me a couple times, then returned to act like a girl, such a squealy, fussy, prancey girl. Little squeals and paws of the front hoof.

I am not so much a girly girl. And now I have April Rainbow. Good god... Why can't her name be Calamity Jane Barbed Wire, for cryin' out loud? What the hell do I call her? Not April. The only April I know is a raging angry bull dyke. Not Rainbow; that is WAY too 'tie-dye and tofu meet the Care Bears' for me. I will give her a name with character, an Irish sounding name, and a name befitting the soggy valley in which we live. I shall call her Rainey.

Welcome home, Rainey.

God, I have a princess, and a redheaded one at that...

We Have All Been There

2011-05-01T12:48:00.000-07:00

I remember when, I remember

I remember when I lost my mind

There was something so pleasant about that place

Even your emotions have an echo in so much space

And when you're out there without care

Yeah, I was out of touch

But it wasn't because I didn't know enough

I just knew too much

Does that make me crazy?

Possibly

And I hope that you are

Having the time of your life

But think twice

That's my only advice

Come on now, who do you

Who do you, who do you, who do you think you are?

Ha ha ha, bless your soul

You really think you're in control?

Well, I think you're crazy

I think you're crazy

Just like me

My heroes had the heart

To lose their lives out on a limb

And all I remember

Is thinking, I want to be like them

Ever since I was little

It looked like fun

And it's no coincidence I've come

And I can die when I'm done

But maybe I'm crazy

Maybe you're crazy

Maybe we're crazy

Probably

Songwriters: Brian Burton; Thomas Callaway; Gianfranco Reverberi; Gian Reverberi

Wordsmithing

2011-04-30T11:36:00.000-07:00

The Washington Post's Mensa Invitational once again invited readers to take any word from the dictionary, alter it by adding, subtracting, or changing one letter, and supply a new definition.

Here are the winners:

1. Cashtration (n.): The act of buying a house, which renders the subject financially impotent for an indefinite period of time.

2. Removed by screener... CL (C of TW note: I really want to know what this one was!!!)

3. Intaxicaton: Euphoria at getting a tax refund, which lasts until you realize it was your money to start with.

4. Reintarnation: Coming back to life as a hillbilly.

5. Bozone (n.): The substance surrounding stupid people that stops bright ideas from penetrating. The bozone layer, unfortunately, shows little sign of breaking down in the near future.

6. Foreploy: Any misrepresentation about yourself for the purpose of getting laid.

7. Giraffiti: Vandalism spray-painted very, very high.

8. Sarchasm: The gulf between the author of sarcastic wit and the person who doesn't get it.

9. Inoculatte: To take coffee intravenously when you are running late.

10. Osteopornosis: A degenerate disease. (This one got extra credit.)

11. Karmageddon: It's like, when everybody is sending off all these really bad vibes, right? And then, like, the Earth explodes and it's like, a serious bummer.

12. Decafalon (n.): The grueling event of getting through the day consuming only things that are good for you.

13. Glibido: All talk and no action.

14. Dopeler Effect: The tendency of stupid ideas to seem smarter when they come at you rapidly.

15. Arachnoleptic Fit (n.): The frantic dance performed just after you've accidentally walked through a spider web.

16. Beelzebug (n.): Satan in the form of a mosquito, that gets into your bedroom at three in the morning and cannot be cast out.

17. Caterpallor (n.): The color you turn after finding half a worm in the fruit you're eating.

The Washington Post has also published the winning submissions to its yearly contest, in which readers are asked to supply alternate meanings for common words.

And the winners are:

1. Coffee (n.) The person upon whom one coughs.

2. Flabbergasted (adj.) Appalled by discovering how much weight one has gained.

3. Abdicate (v.) To give up all hope of ever having a flat stomach.

4. Esplanade (v.) To attempt an explanation while drunk.

5. Willy-nilly (adj.) Impotent.

6. Negligent (adj.) Absentmindedly answering the door when wearing only a nightgown.

7. Lymph (v.) To walk with a lisp.

8. Gargoyle (n.) Olive-flavored mouthwash.

9. Flatulence (n.) Emergency vehicle that picks up someone who has been run over by a steamroller.

10. Balderdash (n.) A rapidly receding hairline.

11. Testicle (n.) A humorous question on an exam.

12. Rectitude (n.) The formal, dignified bearing adopted by proctologists.

13. Pokemon (n.) A Rastafarian proctologist.

14. Oyster (n.) A person who sprinkles his conversation with Yiddishisms.

15. Frisbeetarianism (n.) The belief that, after death, the soul flies up onto the roof and gets stuck there.

16. Circumvent (n.) An opening in the front of boxer shorts worn by Jewish men.

Lookin' for a Pony

2011-04-14T15:05:00.001-07:00

I want a horse. Not just a horse, the right horse. The one that will capture some of the magic of riding that I used to have and enjoy. When horses were simple. When people were more simple, and didn't let horses get away with bad behavior.

Before Down Under Cowboys and Whispering Horsemen made millions telling you how to screw up your horse. When the 'Natural Horsemanship' way was to ride your horse, expect the best of them, and work with them to make sure they remembered that. When the respect between rider and equine was based on hours in the saddle, consistent discipline and praise, not trainers and bling halters and rubber horsey boots.

I am frustrated by what I find in this quest. I have made a couple mistakes in the past, mistakes that cost me time, money, and tears. Mistakes that nearly broke my heart, nearly made me turn my back on this dream forever. I'm sure my husband wishes it would have. Made me willing to never own a horse again, not broken my heart. He just doesn't understand the pull, the attraction.

You, reader, went through the agony of my last horse thinking he was a stallion and running around squealing, nearly tripping over his semi-erect penis. Ick. He didn't even have any testosterone, just some ancient memory of his true calling in life. Whatever it was, it made him unsuitable for my purposes, that is, to be a buddy to me and to safely take me where I wanted to go, with others or alone.

I must be the eternal optimist, looking at the prime riding weather looming, and wanting to have my own horse to take advantage of it with. Last year, the best (and only) riding weather was when my out-of-control horse was in training, draining the budget and my emotions.

I want this year to be different. I want to ride. Next year, where will I be? I don't know. Now, here, this summer, is all I can be sure of. And, at 56 and closing in on the next September birthday, how many years do I have to ride the way I can now? Again, I don't know.

So, ignoring the rolling eyes, the sighs and tightened lips of my spouse, I search on, looking, hoping, dreaming, trying not to give into practicality and age enough to give up. Maybe it's like a man who buys a sports car later in life. Or an older couple who adopt a child. It's like saying 'My life isn't over. I can still enjoy the thing that gave me such pleasure then. I don't need to be content with looking at magazines as others have the fun. I am still able...'

And, really, what's so wrong with that?

Life in Limbo

2011-04-10T12:32:00.000-07:00

I call myself a Lady In Waiting. Not the kind you think. Not the one who is a valued, pampered member of sub-royalty trained to decorate the environment around and serve a female member of the royal household. I call myself that because I feel like I have spent a long time waiting for something to happen, usually to or for someone else, not me. It has been this way for a long time.

One expects it to be thus when the primary caretaker of three young children. I have had to be constantly at the ready to coordinate, facilitate, and act upon the needs of their developing lives, a job I have done willingly, joyfully, and well. But, for the past few years, the kids haven't needed me so much. Still, I wait.

Wait to be summoned to assist a kid, wait to be needed, wait for George to retire, wait for a decision to be made about what town, or area of the U.S., for that matter, we might end up in after his constantly put-off retirement date. Waiting to get a dog until we have a place of our own, at my husband's request. (Seems having a dog for kids is understandable, not so for the desires of a middle-aged woman.) Waiting to get a horse of my own, at my husband's request. Waiting to move to warmer climes so that I don't hurt so much. I have become stagnated in indecisiveness and limbo.

And, I don't know how to restart. I can't remember how to live for myself. Even when I have time off without responsibility or schedule, I seem to exist in a self-imposed lethargy, waiting, keeping myself available. For what? I don't know. It is as if I am 'not-me-without-someone' anymore. What the hell is that about? I am a strong and decisive, successful woman who has accomplished much and broken through many gender barriers throughout several careers.

If I go away for some R & R, if I am alone, my stomach is in a knot, afraid that I won't be available if someone needs me. In my head, I plan the return route, the fastest way to get to whomever needs me. And my fears are not unfounded. Over even the past few years, I have responded to a ruptured appendix, arterial bleed, broken bones, animals needing euthanasia, a cerebral hemorrhage, child stranded in a disastrous host home in Costa Rica, immediate summons to court, well, you get it. I am needed often, and, when I'm not, my entire being seems to be waiting...for...something...to...happen.

I wonder if I am crazy, or well-trained, or compulsive, or dependent on my family for my feeling of validity. Or all those things. Or none of them.

I do know that this empty-nest thing is not all that great. I am not handling it with the grace and dignity I was sure I would. I feel out of synch, slipping and not holding in my attempts at finding solid footing. I want to escape the loop; how to do so is the question...

In my dreams and fantasies, I see myself in a small remote cabin, simple but clean, with a desk and a computer on which I am completing the writing projects I have carried around in the form of outlines for decades. And, there are books; books for reference, books for relaxation, books for company, books for their smell and feel. Fresh cotton curtains billow in warm breezes that sneak in open windows. Outside is a small barn with a bay horse and the sweet smell of hay and leather. A truck in the drive, a dog at my heels. No neighbors to be seen, the smell and sound of a nearby creek. That's it.

Neglect

2011-04-08T12:15:00.000-07:00

I have neglected this poor blog of late. And you, reader, whomever you are. I could say 'no excuse', but I am Irish, and excuses are often more fun than just accepting that one has been a flake and accepting responsibility like an adult.

I have IBS and can't get off the toilet (true, but not relevant to this).
My dog died (true, but over a year ago).
My dad died (true, but 35 years ago).
My mom died (true, but 25 years ago).
My husband had a cerebral hemorrhage (true, but a year ago).
I took in a foster kid (true, two months ago, more about this later).
I ate something that didn't agree with me (seldom does).
I pulled a muscle burying a body.
I am hiding from the revenuers.
I am busy propagating edible conifers.

Well, pick one. That as good as you're gonna get. Or, just know that I got discouraged, depressed and bummed at life. We are barely on speaking terms even now, me and Life.

As Radar O'Reilly says in M.A.S.H. 4077th, 'I hope to better, sir...'

Final Gift to Sugar

2011-03-23T14:20:00.000-07:00

Our intent was to give Sugar, my niece's Arab, one last warm summer to enjoy before euthanizing her, but it is not to be. The cancerous ulcers have broken through the tissue on her face and around her ears. She has large lumps in her throat and jaws. She has raked the skin off the ulcers, making them open and oozing, inviting insect activity. She is skin and bones, and not gaining weight, despite a voracious appetite and free will diet of calorie- and nutrient- laden feeds and supplements along with fresh spring grass.

This afternoon, she will be euthanized. It is not a small endeavor to do so. A method, a time, a disposal, all have to be considered. Tonight, a backhoe will dig a horse-sized hole, and then stand by for the 'after' part.

I will have already administered Bute, a powerful pain reliever, in excessive amounts. Sugar will be led to a quiet place, where I will place a large caliber gun to the spot purported to be most effective, at the prescribed 75-80 degrees, and pull the trigger. She will then be pushed into the grave by the backhoe, covered with soil, and mourned.

This horse owner stuff is hard. But, if one is a true animal lover, it is worse not to do one's duty. Code of the West. I just wish it didn't hurt the euthanizer, too.

From a veterinary school's website, offered as advice to horse owner's:
Details of Euthanasia Methods

Gunshot

The proper location of gunshot penetration is important in the destruction of the brain and minimizing suffering. The optimal site for penetration of the skull is one-half inch above the intersection of a diagonal line from the base of the ear to the in side corner of the opposite eye. The firearm should be aimed directly down the neck, perpendicular to the front of the skull, and held at least 2-6 inches away from the point of impact. When performed skillfully, gunshot induces instantaneous unconscio usness, is inexpensive, and does not require close contact with the horse.

A .22-caliber long rifle is recommended, but a 9mm or .38-caliber handgun will be sufficient for most horses. The use of hollow-point or soft nose bullets will increase brain destruction and reduce the chance of ricochet. If a shotgun is the only avai lable firearm, the use of a rifled slug is preferred.

This method should only be attempted by individuals trained in the use of firearms and who understand the potential for ricochet. Care must be taken to minimize the danger to the operator, observers, and other animals. Personnel must comply with all la ws and regulations governing the posession and discharge of firearms; local ordinances may prohibit the discharge of firearms in certain areas.

Penetrating Captive Bolt Gun

When properly used, the penetrating captive bolt gun produces immediate brain tissue destruction that kills the animal. Captive bolts are powered by gunpowder, thus the selection of the cartridge strength should be appropriate for the size of the animal (adult vs. foal) and this varies among manufacturers. The penetrating captive bolt gun should be placed very firmly against the skull at the same location (see diagram, right) previously described for gunshot. Horses must be adequately restrained to e nsure proper placement of the captive bolt.

Maintenance and cleaning of the penetrating captive bolt gun, as described by the manufacturer, must be followed to ensure proper operation.

Hello, good-bye

2011-03-08T22:21:00.000-08:00

Long, long time since I have posted. I have been in emotional and physical pain. Blogging about it seemed self-indugent. Been confused, in a quagmire, and unable to engage.

Man, this mid-life re-programming is the shits!

Maybe I'll be more communicative in the future. Right now, washing my hair seems like a foray into energetic hopeful-ness...

I am tired.

Little Boys

2010-12-08T11:42:00.000-08:00

A quote from my nurse friend Rebecca, mom of two boys:

Trying to explain immunity to Joshua, my 5 year old. I told him sometimes our body gets stronger after we get sick because we make our germ fighter cells better. To which he said, without missing a beat, "So I can lick my feet to get sick and then I'll be stronger?"

Mommie, Dearest, Do I Have To Go To School Today??

2010-12-05T14:50:00.000-08:00

Wonder if the 'pottie training' involves wire hangers...

I Don't Need No Stinking Wicca To Be A Witch!

2010-12-04T17:32:00.000-08:00

Yes, I Am The Boss of You

2010-11-28T22:24:00.000-08:00

For the time that you are incapacitated, unable to defend yourself, vulnerable, and physically incapacitated, I am your protector. As are all the nurses you deal with. One of the first roles that we are indoctrinated into is 'patient advocate'. Your time without consciousness is one of the most important times of your life; your nurse is there to maintain your airway, protect your privacy, and assure your gentle emergence without injury.

Not exactly the 'doctor's hand maiden', is s/he?

Scheduling Wars

2010-11-09T15:05:00.000-08:00

I was hired years ago at the hospital as an 'evening' per diem. Meaning, I let the scheduler know my availability, I am schedule me the days I am needed, not necessarily all of the days I list. In my initial interview, the nurse manager assured me, in response to my concerns, that almost never would I be required to work later that 1930 (seven thirty p.m. for you non-military time types). I was open about my late evening fatigue and distractedness, a by product of injured muscles and Fibromyalgia.

For the years since my hiring, I am home by 1830, often by 1630 or 1730. Suddenly, after a few nurses took maternity leave or, in one case a leave of absence, in another outright resignation, the per diems have been tapped to fill the gaps. Two of us are suddenly scheduled for late starts (afternoons) and late endings (2200, often). Evenings? Suddenly, that is looking a lot like nights. And, I can tell you, my 50+ year old body doesn't like it. In my younger days, I tried late shifts several times, and never could hack them. Well, that ain't gonna change now.

Additionally, from four day weeks, I have some five day weeks scheduled, against my wishes.

Okay, what to do? I have to look out for myself and my health. So, for the first time, I have become a 'circle the wagons' employee. Use me once, shame on you. Use me again, shame on me. So, I simply put down fewer available days. I would be willing to come in more, but not when I work for a unit that can rearrange my days by six or seven hours without speaking to me or regarding the schedule I have come to expect, based on a precedence of years.

I hate that I have to think like this; to find a way to protect myself, to resort to checks and balances, to end games and punishment. But, as an older and wiser person, I accept that it is what it is, and will look out for me and mine. Another team player goes down in disillusionment...

A Letter to My Friend Who Is In Pain

2010-11-06T16:08:00.000-07:00

Dear Sweet Friend,

Thank you for asking me for advice. I will offer my thoughts, and remember, I am looking in from outside, and can't know all the issues, let alone any of the solutions.

In eastern philosophy, there is a saying, 'When the learner is ready, the teacher will appear'. I thought and thought about that saying. It does not mean that God determines our readiness and poof! provides a teacher. The teacher may have been there all along, sleeping in the same bed with us or working in the cubby next door, but we don't listen and learn until our mind, heart and life is prepared. Another, more direct Western, way of saying this is 'When the soil is ready, the seed will sprout'.

You have been placed in this man's path twice in ten years. Neither time, for very different reasons, was THE time. Because you are the more sensitive, dreaming, hopeful and open one, you get hurt. You are the little seed that tries and tries to push into the hard dry barren soil without success. I am sorry for you. But, even if allowed to sprout this time in his life, it would turn out poorly, and you would grow to become weak and stunted. He is barren and non-nourishing right now.

Cut your losses. Gently but firmly close the door NOW. He will respect you more for not dithering or begging or flaring. State your case clearly and lovingly, saying that you have expectations of the man who will become your partner and he is unable to meet those at this time. You have given, you have a right to expect to be given back to, without score keeping or dramatic reluctance. You are a catch. You aren't perfect, but you also don't expect your ultimate partner to be.

Wish him luck and blow him a kiss as your helicopter lifts off, taking you to another adventure. He will feel the loss, and, more importantly, you will be providing him with what could be a life altering lesson, if he is ready. If not, know that you are doing what is best for you.

Good luck. I love you.

Elk Hunting

2010-10-25T20:05:00.000-07:00

Beginning tomorrow, I get to participate in that millenia-old practice of hunting for food, the four legged, hard-to-find kind. Elk.

I love the challenge, the exposure to the elements, the physical ferocity and mental determination necessary to hunt at 7,000+ feet above sea level in knee deep snow and single digit cold. I love stalking and winning my own food.

I hate packing, cooking and preparing for the trip. It makes me realize how ill-prepared we humans are to face harsh environments. We must have adequate shelter, clothing, food, directional support, and rescue provisions.

I love to hunt, I love to brave less than perfect elements, but I am not a cave woman. I want to have a warm drink and soft bed when I come in for the night.

Why Does This Scare Me?

2010-10-18T19:30:00.000-07:00

The only thing funner, more exciting in terms of television watching, than watching Ice Road Truckers battle the elements to get their load to isolated frozen communities, is watching my husband watch IRT. Actually, no, it is only instructional...

When I met my husband, he was a truck driver, on his way to law school. He had driven massive Euclid pit trucks in a copper pit in Nevada. He had near misses with the huge trucks on narrow, recently constructed roads winding hundreds of feet up the the surface. He remembers, viscerally, the close calls when he watches these shows and, years later, the true meaning comes back to haunt him. It is a PTSD-like experience, accompanied by elevated heart rate, blood pressure and temperature. He gets a lightheadedness, a near panicky reaction.

At the time, decades ago, he did what he had to do. He was in the moment, dealing second by second with a vibrating resistant steering wheel, a steep drop off, and a sliding, slewing load. Death or disaster was near at hand. Now, his body and mind remember, and allow him to process; the fear, the anxiety, and the flight or fight reaction. Problem is, he doesn't need the input now. Dang, he had a cerebral hemorrhage only seven months ago...But, the body makes no distinction between then and now. And, so he feels everything, but has a morbid attraction/curiosity to the show. Maybe in a 'facing the fear' kind of way.

That, my friend, is PTSD. In a nasty nutshell...

Stalking the Elusive Elk

2010-10-17T10:33:00.000-07:00

Hunting season #1, Mule Deer, is over.

Hunting season #2, Rocky Mountain Elk, begins next Saturday.

I am finishing the laundry from #1, sorting and repacking for #2. Since all of the hunting gear is at our home, the kids need us to pack for them so they can go.

This season, it means that I pack for two sons and myself. Camo, cold weather unders, overalls, hats, socks, gloves, guns, ammo, backpacks, survival gear, boots.

Additionally, I pack food for everyone, most of which needs to be cooked first so it can be quickly reheated after a day of hunting. This year's menu is meatloaf, chicken enchiladas, turkey and dressing, calzone, broccoli cheesy rice casserole, and whatever else makes me drool as I am planning and shopping.

I work everyday but Thursday, and I have a dental appointment that day, so I guess I better get busy...

For now, my house resembles a sporting goods store that just had a grenade lobbed into it...

What A Real Man Does

2010-10-01T07:00:00.000-07:00

A real man is a woman's best friend. He will never stand her up and never let her down.
He will reassure her when she feels insecure and comfort her after a bad day.
He will inspire her to do things she never thought she could do; to live without fear and forget regret.

He will enable her to express her deepest emotions and give in to her most intimate desires.

He will make sure she always feels as though she's the most beautiful woman in the room and will enable her to be the most confident, sexy, seductive, invincible....

No wait... sorry... I'm thinking of wine.
That's what wine does...
Never mind....

Deer Hunting Season Once Again

2010-09-30T07:00:00.000-07:00

(Jupiterimage, from Google)

Why do I hunt? It's a lot to think about, and I think about it a lot. I hunt to acknowledge my evolutionary roots, millennia deep, as a predatory omnivore. To participate actively in the bedrock workings of nature. For the atavistic challenge of doing it well with an absolute minimum of technological assistance. To learn the lessons, about nature and myself, that only hunting can teach. To accept personal responsibility for at least some of the deaths that nourish my life. For the glimpse it offers into a wildness we can hardly imagine. Because it provides the closest thing I've known to a spiritual experience. I hunt because it enriches my life and because I can't help myself. . .because I have a hunter's heart.

---David Petersen

Great Tee Shirt

2010-09-29T17:00:00.000-07:00

Miss me yet? How's that hopey-changey thing going for you?

Fat and Sad

2010-09-27T22:17:00.000-07:00

My 500 pound patient asked why I was so nice to her. I said, 'Because you are a good person. You deserve it.' She began to cry, and said that most people deal matter-of-factly, or barely civilly.

How would it be to go through life, with almost everyone judging and dissing and being disgusted?

She hugged me with tears in her eyes when I sent her to the floor. She said, 'I want to take you with me.'

I Am (Sorta) Ready

2010-09-24T17:15:00.000-07:00

A year ago April, my little dog Caliente died in my arms after a long illness and heroic efforts to save her. She was a sweet, kind, silly and devoted little bit of life force that touched my heart and my person daily for over ten years. Losing her left a void in my heart, and by my side in my chair.

I think I am now ready. No, not to have another dog, but to change my introductory description of this blog. I have not been able to delete 'an old Chihuahua'. Today, I will.

I poured out my pain on this blog as she progressed in her illness, and I wrestled with my decisions and tried to decide how much help is too much, how much medicine is futile, how I could bear to make the ultimate decision for her. It seems appropriate that I address the pain of deleting yet another reminder of her mark on my life.

I have given away the doggy beds, the electric warming pads, the toys, collars and laser pointers she loved so much, except for a few raggedy toys she shared with her sister, Gordita, and her foster mother, Lacey the Beagle, both of whom predeceased her in the two years prior. I was moved to tears when I found her pirate shirt last weekend in my Wii bowling bag that matched mine. I have washed the blankets she slept on in her warm little crate. She has slowly been leeching out of the topsoil of our daily lives.

And, I have noticed, fought, acknowledged, and finally accepted the fading. Today, another.

I won't let her be gone, nor will my family. She is here, along with the others that made our pathetic humanness more bearable, more fun, more joy-filled. Just, now, not in the blog description.

Friendly Parasites! It'll Be Worth It!

2010-09-13T18:36:00.000-07:00

Google image

Always Remember

2010-09-11T15:04:00.000-07:00

Google image

It was a morning none of us could imagine ever happening. But, it did.

I was waiting to take my teenagers to school, and we didn't watch television in the morning. The phone rang. It was my son's friend, Jordan, who said in a strained voice, 'Have you seen what's happening in New York on tv?' He was a latch key kid, and I worried about him being alone. 'No, what's up?' 'Just turn it on and call me back'. I did.

Every station was filled with the images of the planes, the crashes, flames and smoke. Of white dust encrusted figures running away from the devastation and yellow coated fire fighters running toward it. Of filthy people in business suits crying into bloodied hands. Of loved ones being restrained by others.

I went to my kids and shared the news, then led them into the family room to see the images, those that would come to define America's interaction with the rest of the world during their lives. I knew that life as we had known it was over; changed by the raging extremism of others. As it so often is. I looked at their young, unlined faces frozen in horrified fascination and trepidation and felt deep sorrow for them. It was a loss of innocence, exposure to a toxin so profound as to taint their souls forever.

I hated the men behind this evisceration of the U.S. The ones who could think of something so horrendous. The ones who plotted, planned, and executed such cruel mayhem with impunity. I hated anyone who would forever change my children's lives in such a manner. And make me party to that change, as the one who led them to the moment of knowing.

I knew that my priorities for the coming days and weeks and months had instantly changed, constricted to a small circle in that moment. One including my husband and I, my children and whatever friends needed us, and my closest community. I felt palpably the duty of a mother, friend, a sister and a matriarch. I gathered my big kids into a tight hug circle, and we stood silently, stiffly, as if at attention and ready to defend against an incoming blow.

We went to our lives later, walking carefully, talking quietly, thinking before speaking or acting. As if we were trying not to disturb someone in the next room. In fact, we were uncomfortable in our own lives, our own clothes. We were here, safe and whole, and the world just shifted. Shouldn't there be some outward change, some open wound to tend, some deep feeling of hunger or fear? Should we have to give up something, run away from something, hide in the dark from something? Life was just so normal as the days unfolded, except for what we saw and read through the media and the talk.

We were torn, wanting to have some thing to tend to, some manifestation of our pain, some proof of our victimization, but there was none. Only the vague uneasiness, like fear, like pain, like grief, like hatred, but not quite. The most were were able to do is to cling tightly to one another, to talk, to tell one another 'I love you'.

We craved a wake, a ceremony, an official opportunity to show the world our pain, our shared loss, our bewildering muddle of emotion. But, we were way out west, far from the action and the drama of the real story. We didn't feel eligible to say 'I hurt'. That was for the victims, the families, the bloodied business people. Our hands and clothing were clean and whole. All of our bleeding was on the inside.

Heroes

2010-09-09T20:43:00.000-07:00

God Bless Organ Donors and Their Families...

(dedicated to a young, healthy drowning victim I have recently become acquainted with,

and said goodbye to...)

Entry Level Horse Budget

2010-09-07T07:00:00.000-07:00

Horse.........................$3-5000

Horse Trailer............$3000-7000

Truck..........................$5000-25,000

Round Pen.................$1000-1,500

Saddle.........................$250-1200

Headstall, bit, reins..$100-250

Loafing Pen, Stable or Barn.....$500-10,000

Vet Check....................$180-350

Immunizations...........$20-50

Farrier.........................$150-300

Food.............................$100-350

Riding outfit, boots, rain gear..$250-500

Time in the saddle.....PRICELESS!

Crawdaddin'

2010-09-06T15:06:00.000-07:00

Google image

Crayfish, crawdads, 'dads, fresh water langostino, whatever you call the little red arthropods that scurry on the bottom of most fresh water lakes and streams, they are tasty treats when prepared correctly. They have a mild lobster taste and firm textured white meat.

We get them by net or by ring. We usually bait with fish chunks, salmon being the preferred delicacy, then pass by the bait several times to net the critters lured out to the bait. Or, we use rings with nets baited similarly, coming by after a bit to bring them up and reap the bounty.

We cook them by bringing salted water to a boil that has a generous handful of pickling spice in it. Then, we put the crawdads in live, bring back to a boil, and cook for twelve minutes. We remove them and eat them with melted butter, sometimes mayonnaise. They are also delicious cold with mayonnaise.

We eat tails and claws. Some folks suck the brine and innards from the body of the shell. It is popular in the south to do so. My family and I have never developed a taste for that. In fact, I find the idea of it nauseating. But, to each their own...

Things That Kept Me Sane, Or Led Me Back To Sanity

2010-09-01T19:10:00.000-07:00

Google image

Okay, so I am not entirely what most folks would call really sane. but, I am not quite at the definition of insane, legally speaking. I am sort of..., functional and pretty much okay. Like most of us, I dwell in that wide band in the middle of the spectrum referred to as 'normal'. Where one appears on that spectrum is variable, so most of us just don't talk about it.

When my kids left home, or at least the last one did, I felt like I was going nuts. I was so sad, so angry, so critical of life and people, so disillusioned. The now and the future held no interest or excitement for me. I took long naps, stopped doing stuff that I love to do, gained weight, cried over baby clothes as I was purging the clutter in storage.

I was depressed and pissed off, and borderline mutinous. I contemplated faraway places and new faces. I was approaching the edge of that wide band of normalcy, moving closer to 'nuts'.

Then, I started blogging. I wrote about anything I could think of. Not emotions or empty nest syndrome (that's what they call it, it has an actual name), there are plenty of sites for that. Just my life, my animals, things I found funny or motivating or outrageous. I didn't care if anyone read it. I love to write; always have. I used to journal regularly, a habit that went away as I advanced career, marriage, childrearing. (Ewww..., I wonder where all those journals went?)

I found, as the months passed, that I was soothed as I 'talked' about things on my computer. It calmed me, made me focus, helped me see and appreciate the funny or quirky or poignant stuff of life. If that ain't therapy, I don't know what is.

And, also, after a year or so of healing, I got a horse. As a child and adolescent, I spent as much time on horseback as I possibly could. My horse loved me unconditionally, never spit out venomous words, never hit me, never shamed me. Just carried me to places far away from the hell of home. Munched grass around my dreaming form lying in high meadows under wispy clouds. Warmed my cold hands on dark winter evenings as I watched him eat in the low pole tar paper building we called the barn, as I escaped the bottled up anger in our steamy rickety house.

A horse represented freedom, calm, escape, independence. It conjured images of having a friend that is loyal and loving and nonjudgemental. Just the thought made me smile.

So, fast forward to now, once again a horse owner, once again riding alone or with friends, escaping, calm, focused, filling my empty nest heart and my 'what now?' mind. A balm on four legs, an elixir of life that is real messy.

I'm ready for the next chapter, Life, bring it on...

So Long, Sweet Albert

2010-08-30T13:11:00.001-07:00

Albert found the food scoop

Albert and Timora, his surviving wife

Bundled up in a towel

Bath time

In the end, it was not a predator that claimed the life of brave Albert. It was an unresolved encapsulated abscess. Our little rooster, he who fought off skunk, hawk, snake, dog, cat, other roosters and human alike to safeguard his mate, his food, his domain, succumbed to mortality in a sadder and more mundane fashion than I would have anticipated.

I would have thought he would go out of this world in a blaze of glory, all blood and feathers and fury. I expected him to die as he lived, all out of proportion to his size. But, it was not to be.

Over a month ago, Albert sustained an injury, probably a puncture wound of some sort, in his right thigh. It became infected. Eventually, we noticed him limping. Examination revealed a hard hot mass in his thigh, one that quickly rendered him unable to walk. I called around to find an avian veterinarian at 1830 at night. After a succession of 'no's', I got a yes, at, surprisingly, Banfield's at PetSmart. $120.00 later, I had an injected chicken, take home meds, and a probable diagnosis.

When avian pus gets old within a nondraining wound, it becomes hard and dry, or caseous. It is difficult for the bird to reabsorb this nonperfused junk. It lingers for weeks. Sometimes, the whole mass of stuff is removed surgically. If I were braver or more experienced, I might have tried this approach. If I were richer, I might have asked a vet to it. But, I am neither.

I gave the first round of antibiotics and pain medication, then a couple weeks later, another round. I used the massage, tissue mobilization and physical therapy techniques I have learned over the years. I gave injections, special diet, sunshine, heat, love... I took Albert to Reno for a family birthday party in order to continue his treatment uninterrupted. I kissed him a lot.

Last week, he had a really good couple of days. He got up and walked, quite upright, and began talking in sweet little coo's and clucks. He asked to go outside and then alternately laid in the sun and in the shade, picking at the dirt and under the leaves for goodies. I was so tickled by the progress, I cried and laughed at the same time. When I kissed his comb, he shook his head, to free his face from my dripping tears.

But, like so many other animals and people I have known, he changed when the temperature at night dropped. He became weak and immobile, sleeping a lot and less responsive to me. In a few short days, he was gone.

I have a belief that ill and compromised organisms know when a winter will be too much for their own limited reserves, and choose an earlier, easier death over a chilling wasting away. I have always applied this graceful leave-taking with October, the month of true entry into winter's inescapable pull. My father chose that month, many of my patients choose that month. In the later hunting seasons, later October and November, I often encounter the remains of older or injured animals.

I think I helped Albert feel content and loved during his last weeks. He ate well and he was safe. He was affectionate and occasionally mobile. I never felt that he would have been better off dead. I would not have let him live if I had felt he was suffering. I was beginning to worry on the last couple days. But in the end, I would not have to make the difficult choice. Albert made it on his own.

He lived on his own terms, wandering free and taking on all comers. And, he died on his own terms, choosing his time. Classy little guy start to finish.

Go with God, little general...

False Advertising

2010-08-24T19:55:00.001-07:00

I wonder, no, I doubt, if the 'ads' on women's tee shirts are really true. You know the ones: Juicy. Sinful. Hanky Panky. Torrid. Heartthrob. Hot and Wild. Too Much. Anarchy. Angel. Affliction. Baby Cakes. Hott.

I see the muffin tops with their fat bulging over low rise jeans that are three sizes too small sporting a shirt that proclaims that they are 'too hot to handle', 'too much for you, loser', or one of the in-your-face brand names that promise willing and prepared parts. It makes me sad.

Because I doubt it. I think it is a sad, 'whistling-past-the-graveyard' stance designed to make insecure, pathetic girls and women pretend to be something they are not. SEEM to be unaffected by their own hated obesity. PRETEND to be sexier than they will ever regard themselves.

Sad. Pathetic. Wrong. And Untrue...

Chicken Legs

2010-08-23T23:05:00.000-07:00

Poor Albert, the Little General, he of upright stature and Viciously Protective Tendencies, is crippled. Like a wounded soldier, he bears the humility, immobility, and pain with a clenched mouth (beak) muttered '2' when considering his own pain on a scale of 1 to 10 (unlike the flip '10' offered by the twenty-something broken wrist who is eating pudding and watching 'The Kardasians'). Like a WWII vet.

I took Albert on the road trip to Reno for my brother's 70th birthday party (said bro is WAAAY older than I...just so you know...). In a clear plastic tote, so he could see me and not be cut off from stimulation. So I could give him his IM (intramuscular) injections of the third antibiotic in recent weeks. I also provide electrolytes and vitamins via his water supply, and will give oral antibiotics via his drinking water beginning tomorrow. I massage the frozen joint, and perform 'tissue mobilization', taking care to give an oral pain medication first.

Then, my son e-mails me from his home in Mexico, where he is playing professional soccer. Seems his contact 'family' has chickens. One is a wanderer, and they don't want him to escape. They don't want to build a coop. So, they laid out a little wooden/stick-type perimeter for him to stay in, and broke his legs so he couldn't get out.

'OMG!!!' I texted back. 'Even my dad in his worst moments of rage would never do that...' But, unfortunately, I get it. It is a reality in a third world country. Animals are 'things', people are all. The animals exist at the pleasure and use of the humans. And, often, that sucks.

But, it stands in stark contrast to what my son has known in his life, in his reality. I am glad that he is shocked and repulsed by the barbaric practices that often define animal husbandry in foreign places. It breaks my heart that my kid (he still is, you know...) has to learn about this lack of development in kindness, but I am proud that he is so impressed and sickened. He is the better, more fully evolved human.

I am proud of you, my son...

White Trash Taxidermy

2010-08-23T07:00:00.000-07:00

I only wish I'd thought of this first...

White Trash Memories

2010-08-22T07:00:00.000-07:00

Daddy kept a still in the pole shed where he conditioned his fighting roosters. He kept vats of fruit wine and green beer in different stages of fermentation. Once, when I was twelve and the green beer was ready for bottling, I helped cap the newly bottled beer. He instructed me to drink each bottle down to the right level and then cap it. He filled every bottle a little too full. Later, the world spun and shifted and I was scared when, on my knees, I threw up behind the shed while Daddy laughed. The next time, I didn't let him see me throw up.

White trash memories; bloody spurs and feathers

2010-08-21T07:00:00.000-07:00

When I was a child, my dad held chicken fights at our place. Sometimes a hundred or more people brought their best birds to do battle in the round plywood pits down in our woods. Cars and trucks with license plates from a half dozen states lined our long muddy drive. The smells of coffee and beer mingled in the damp morning air. Cigarette coarsened voices softly called out bets. The stern command of the referee to 'Pit 'em!' broke the fog muffled surrealism. Bright feathers and flashing steel spurs entangled with the thump and shuffle of feathers and wings. The men hollered out their encouragement and predictions, cursing and condemning and celebrating in turn. Blood scented steam rose from the damp panting birds, sharp and stimulating. During breaks, the handlers in the pits opened their mouths wide and laid them across the saddle feathers to breathe hot air on the bird. 'To make 'em mad,' Daddy said. Once, I saw a guy put his plug of chewing tobacco into the bird's vent. 'To make him mad,' I thought. Soon the sounds of mortal combat would slow, then stop. After that, only the rustle of money could be heard.

White trash memories; hard life lessons

2010-08-20T07:00:00.001-07:00

An organized rooster fight can be stopped in one of three ways: one bird (the winner) kills the other outright, a referee can declare one bird the winner if he has so badly beaten his opponent that there is no real fight left (this keeps the action in the pits moving along), and an owner can forfeit a fight before his bird is killed so that he might save it to use as brood stock or even to fight it again later.

After the referee declares a fight, the losing bird is in bad shape, full of spur holes and bacteria, suffering from blood loss and trauma. As a joke, the bird owners that came to our place for the fights sometimes gave half-dead birds to me, an eight to eleven year old, knowing I would nurse them and care for then the best I could, until their inevitable death. It was a joke on my dad, but I never knew that until I was grown. One such bird, a big Dixie Blue Shuffler, was my favorite. I was ten years old.

Every hour, I fed Dixie milk-soaked bread, cornmeal mush and water. I put medicine in his water. I set his broken wing with masking tape. I sang to him and covered him at night. He was getting better, I was sure. But, my dad kept pestering me to trade Dixie for a sleek and sparkely blue-black three-spurred Sumatra stag.

Finally, I agreed to the deal, knowing that Daddy was so much better at caring for sick animals. I figured that 'that ol' bird' would be up and around in no time, under my daddy's care.

In the hot July sun, we met in the middle of the barnyard, the Sumatra's tail feathers glistening against Daddy's faded bib overalls. I handed off Dixie, dirty masking tape trailing like streamers. I took the firmer and lighter young bird, trying not to crush his long dark feathers.

Suddenly, Daddy grabbed Dixie's neck and flipped him over and down. My father's arm jerked up as the bird's body reached the end of the arc and I heard the dull crack of neck bones separating and sinew stretching. I felt like someone had planted a man-sized fist in my belly. I managed to cry out, "Daddy--you killed my bird!" Daddy leaned down and looked into my teary eyes and said, "No, Fuzzy, I killed my bird. He stopped bein' your bird when you traded him off..." He turned and walked out of the barnyard, tossing the carcass onto the burn pile as he passed.

White Trash Memories

2010-08-19T07:00:00.000-07:00

There were no light switches in our house. Light bulbs suspended from a wire coming through a hole in the ceiling. You had to screw in to turn them on, then unscrew to turn it off, but ya better lick your fingers first so you don't get burned.

Lullaby For My Children, Every Night For Twelve Years... Morningtown Ride

2010-08-17T07:00:00.000-07:00

Train whistle blowing, makes a sleepy noise,
Underneath their blankets go all the girls and boys.

Heading from the station, out along the bay,
All bound for Morningtown, many miles away.

Mack is at the engine, Garrett rings the bell,
Emmy swings the lantern, to show that all is well.

Rocking, rolling, riding, out along the bay,
All bound for Morningtown, many miles away.

Maybe it is raining where our train will ride;
But all the little travellers are warm and snug inside.

Rocking, rolling, riding, out along the bay,
All bound for Morningtown, many miles away.

Somewhere there is sunshine, somewhere there is day,
Somewhere there is Morningtown, many miles away.

Thank you, Malvina, for the memories, the tradition, the little smiles and little squirms when each child heard their name sung in turn. Thank you for reassuring my babies that sleep was a gentle journey, not to be feared or fought.

With your words and your talent, you brought peace to a young family tattered by the time nightfall descended, and gave a sweet familiarity to the routine of bedtime. You gave a reason for my bad vocals to croon to my babies, a balm to us all. In their adulthood, they still remember me, and you, and the nightly journey to Morningtown...

Do I Hafta Go To School?

2010-08-16T07:00:00.000-07:00

My horse, Cruz, is learning manners, the Parelli Natural Horse-Man-Ship way. Sounds cool, doesn't it?Well, it is cool. He has been under daily training for three months. And it has come to pass that I, too, must learn what he knows. So that I know how to lead him, manage him, give him direction. So that our future together is better than our past.

But, I have learned something new about myself. I have become intolerant, and resistant, even afraid of, certain learning scenarios. I don't want to drive for a half hour, ride slowly in an arena for an hour and try to follow instructions from someone else. No matter how much I like the idea of learning, no matter how much I want to know this stuff, I hate doing it. I have become someone who wants to stay in a comfort zone.

I wonder if it is because I spent three and a half years being worked to death, scared to death, studying like hell, attending classes and learning nursing skills under the strict scrutiny of evil instructors, living in another town from my husband and children, spending twelve to twenty hours a day trying to become a nurse. I turned fifty years old in nursing school. Then, I was ejected into the profession of nursing where I was sucked in, chewed up, spit out and ground down trying to become good enough to be respected and regarded. Even now, I regularly come face to face with self doubt and second guessing. It gets pounded into your head in nursing school.

I, in some ways, regret not having waited until the kids left home to go back to school. I feel like I missed so much of their lives in high school. I did take my eldest, Mack, to the town where I went to nursing school, and he completed his Associates Degree there. We were roommates in college, we tell people.

But, I think a direct result of all of this late-in-life learning, being micromanaged, being exhausted and overworked, is that I have little tolerance for any but short and sweet lessons or classes. I find myself judiciously avoiding being tied down to a classroom, being lectured at, being watched and judged, that is, feeling like I did in nursing school.

We nursing students joke that nursing educators tear you down and rebuild you in their own image. We cried, ranted, got drunk, laughed until we cried or threw up. We all walked around like zombies. We lost or gained weight, let our hair, nails and skin go to hell, screwed up relationships, got sick and had no time to get better, so we got worse. We all did, men, women, young and older. I would watch the young students drag themselves in to class, exhausted and ill and discouraged and scared of failure. And, I thought, if that is how hard this is on someone half my age, what the hell am I doing here?

Anyway, that is my hypothesis of why I resist classes, restrictions on my time and movement, and ongoing lessons and learning. Please understand that I love to learn; I consider myself somewhat of a renaissance woman, having learned and succeeded in four diverse consecutive careers areas, each lasting a decade. I have had to do things I don't want to do, many times. But, I think I am all done being stressed by learning or restrictions.

I want things to be easy now. I want to be left alone more. I want to feel accomplished and proficient. I want to decide my activities and the amount of time or energy to invest and where to invest it. I am looking for Life's Easy Button. Or maybe just an extended vacation where I can catch up on my sleep.

You Can Learn At Home In Your Spare Time! Make $30-$35 Every Dang Week!

2010-08-15T07:00:00.000-07:00

Makes ya wanna be a nurse, doesn't it?

Can you just imagine being in charge of a 10 bed hospital? Gosh!

And The Beat Goes On...

2010-08-14T07:00:00.000-07:00

from TotallylooksLike.com

This proves that history repeats itself, trends run in cycles, everything old is new again, however you want to put it. Justin Beiber, current singing heartthrob of young girls, and Donnie Osmond, past singing heartthrob of young girls (the author excepted; I've always gone for the older cowboy type), in a side by side comparison.

Quote

2010-08-13T16:16:00.000-07:00

Due to a typing error,

Gov. Dukakis was incorrectly identified in the third paragraph as Mike Tyson.

--Fitchburg-Leonminster (Mass.) Sentinel and Enterprise correction

People of Walmart

2010-08-09T07:00:00.000-07:00

People of Walmart is a site where pictures are posted of... people at Walmart stores. It is worth a look. I laughed so hard the first time I visited, my family was getting annoyed. Nearly as outrageous as the pictures are the comments that the administrator posts with them.

The pictures represent a glimpse of American culture that most of us want to deny exists. But, through this web site, you will realize that mullets, skullets, 'Flashdance' off-the-shoulder shirts with leggings and slouch socks, neon Spandex, and rotted teeth are very much alive, and at a Walmart near you as you read this.

Enjoy the examples...

http://www.peopleofwalmart.com

2010-08-08T09:57:00.000-07:00

Either Grandpa dressed himself today, or someone hates the old fart.

More Tricks On Old People

2010-08-01T11:46:00.000-07:00

Okay, so I play a few tricks on George... Some involving glasses/eyesight/whatever see post 'Tricks on Old People'. But, even when I don't, I get the blame. Geez, poor me.

George left his tee shirt outside last night with his reading glasses in the case in the pocket. This a.m., he went out to fetch them. He brought them inside, took them out and put them on. At which point he accused me of 'screwing with his glasses', thinking I'd blacked them out with felt tip marker again. No, I hadn't...

Nurses and their patients vs. doctors

2010-07-29T20:33:00.000-07:00

Today, I had a patient who was trending downward, oxygen saturation in her blood plasma way lower than the ideal percentage of >90%. I called the doctor repeatedly, indicating my concern for her work of breathing, for her downward spiral, for her fatigue and stress, for the coarse crackles, and later, gurgling, in her lungs.

Without placing a stethoscope on her, he determined that she had atelectasis, gas and liquids in her peritoneal cavity, as a result of surgery, a benign finding, not her lungs. He ordered, at my request, a chest xray.

Well, low and behold, she had fluid on her lungs. Well, we diuresed her, we gave her packed red blood cells, which probably contributed to the problem, and I continued to harangue the hell out of the doctor for more orders, more aggressive treatment. Nope.

Finally, the patient was stating that she was exhausted, that she felt 'like you're going to lose me...' I reassured her, told her we would never let that happen, and unleashed my concern on the doc.

Stat chest xray... Hmmm, lungs full of liquid. Patient spiraling downward. Re-intubation and transfer to ICU.

Could we not have just avoided this by listening to the critical care nurse at bedside for 6+ hours? By being proactive instead of obstructionistic?

No, I guess not... I don't have an MD after my name...

My Husband's Cat

2010-07-29T07:00:00.000-07:00

I hate my husband's cat. I picked her out, brought her from Montana, made her feel welcome, raised her from a tiny shirt pocket baby, but she bonded to him like bubble gum on a men's room floor. She apparently felt that in bonding to him, she had to hate me, openly harass and yowl on my days to sleep in, and relieve herself on my possessions.

It wasn't cute when she was little, and, now, eighteen years later, it is even less cute. She has ruined so many things over the years, and I am tired of it. Nothing, short of building her a $250 cat condo complete with litter box, ever controlled it. But, since we moved onto the farm, she is allowed to sleep in the screened room/Florida room/lanai thing.

So, you can imagine how uncute I found it when when used my new exercise sandal as a toilet. No spillage, as you can see. Just a nasty morning surprise for the hated 'other woman' in my husband's life: ME.

My wish for you

2010-07-27T20:28:00.000-07:00

May today there be peace within.

May you trust that you are exactly where you are meant to be.

May you not forget the infinite possibilities that are born of faith in yourself and others.

May you use the gifts that you have received, and pass on the love that has been given to you.

May you be content with yourself just the way you are.

Let this knowledge settle into your bones, and allow your soul the freedom to sing, dance, praise and love.

It is there for each and every one of us.

--unknown

Animal noises

2010-07-26T19:20:00.000-07:00

Here on the farm, we hear many noises generated by animals and birds. Some are sounds that we have heard thousands of times throughout the years; familiar, comfortable sounds that are easily identifiable. They are conspicuous only if they are absent.

Then, there are the sounds that either sound so weird and unnatural that it makes the skin crawl. Not only unidentifiable, but spooky. Made more so by the foreignness of them. It is one thing to encounter the unknown in a strange environment, but on your own farm, it is downright creepy.

I took to the internet in trying to identify a strange screeching sound echoing up from the deep canyon nearby. I thought it was a hawk's crying screech. George thought he had once heard fox kits crying the same way. I Google's 'fox kit noises', and BAM! a million choices. I chose the more likely ones, and finally found the exact noise we are hearing.

The list of noises was endless, just for the fox. Who knew they have a language that is rich and of wide range? It is interesting to know, also, that zoologists and naturalists have done so much research on this particular subject, and made the recorded noise ours for the listening! I love the digital age for the appreciation and knowledge of our world and the animals we share it with.

Go to: http://www.animalpicturesarchive.com/animal/SOUND/

Then, choose #43, Red Fox-yiff

Enjoy!

Things That Give Us Security

2010-07-25T19:20:00.000-07:00

This is Reese, who is upset because Mr. Hanky had to have a bath during a camping trip, and now has to dry. Don't you wish you could just give in to this feeling when, for example, the store you go to is out of Diet Pepsi or your favorite juice???

Value Is In The Eye Of The Beholder

2010-07-23T17:29:00.000-07:00

When my kids complained about my decisions, restrictions, or unfairness, which, to their (and my) credit, was only occasional, and never disrespectful, I replied thusly:

"That is why we want you to go to school, get a good education,

get a good job, and make a lot of money.

Then you can afford a really great mother.

I'm just the one you got for free".

Usually, that ended the discussion...

Things I have Done to My Husband (and am not sorry for...)

2010-07-18T12:36:00.000-07:00

Drew felt-tip marker eye balls on his glasses and put them back in the case.
Tied knots in all the fingers of surgical gloves I packed for him for field dressing game in Alaska.
When he told me how much he enjoyed finding the differences in the pictures in the comics on Sunday, I made sure I got there first and circled them all for three weeks.
Wrote SPOILED backwards on his windshield when he got a new company truck.
Put empty beer cans in his cooler under the ice to replace the full ones. I did leave one full; but he had to search through fifteen or more empty ones.

Teachin' the Young'ns

2010-07-16T18:45:00.000-07:00

Quaila, a hand raised Rhode Island Red hen, shows her babies, RRI x Araucanas, to dust bathe. Problem was, the spring was wet, so it turned into more of a mud bath lesson.

But still cute as heck...

Quote

2010-07-12T21:19:00.000-07:00

Regard it as just as desirable to build a chicken house as to build a cathedral.

---Frank Lloyd Wright

Out of line, again...

2010-07-11T21:34:00.000-07:00

Seems that a parent can never get to a place where they don't embarrass their kids...

From being praised for learning to text, I have gone to being vilified for making comments on Facebook. Wow, none of this shit was even a remote thought when I became a mom.

I guess I should not dabble in the business of youth. But, still, I cannot imagine criticizing my mom, dead these past 26 years, for sticking up for me, for expressing interest, for trying to stay involved. Man, if she even knew what I was doing, it would have been epic.

I keep finding ways to touch the perimeters of each grown child's tolerance. It is a strange journey; three humans that mean more to me than life, and I choose the wrong path so often. Is it my blundering, or their intolerance or sensitivity, or both?

Will they, as I do, mourn the criticism I directed at my parents during my youth? Will they ever recognize my limitations of upbringing, culture and technology? Maybe the best approach is the one chosen by my husband, and so many other baby boomer/empty nester/21st century parents: simply don't go there. Don't participate, don't learn the new ways, don't go there.

This parenting thing, the empty nest thing, is hard and confusing and hurtful. Maybe I'll just go eat worms...

Farm Hens Move to Seattle

2010-07-10T20:41:00.000-07:00

Google image

So, my eldest kid, a son, got a home in a cute, close, back-to-the past neighborhood. He and his girlfriend live in a vintage home with a big yard within walking distance of shops, restaurants, salons, and grocery stores. So, what is missing? A touch of home; he and his lady wanted farm fresh eggs and the company of chickens...

Okay, I have some year old hens that could provide them with more eggs than they can use. Three Araucana/Rhode Island Red cross hens who lay at least an egg a day, each. Not very socialized, because their mom was super secret about her nest and her nestlings.

So, a couple days ago, I brought them to Seattle, along with tools to build a nice home. Wow, what a project. I gotta say, it is impressive and in keeping with the neighborhood. BUT, what a project, and in 90+ degree F. weather. The sore hands, chicken and chicken-wire scratches, sunburn, and exhaustion would have been enough for me to qualify for the finals in the Mother of the Year awards (what? you don't think our kids compare notes?). But, I got extra points.

See, one of the hens, whom I have dubbed Roamy, for her penchant to roam independently up to a half mile away from our place on the farm, got out of the yard. We searched, we spotted, we tried to corner, we failed. She remained on the lamb.

In one spectacular dive to grab her, my sandal caught on a stump covered with ivy and I went down, knee first, right on a huge pointed rock. Pain, blood, even an exposed bone. Cool. Chicken wrangling at it's best.

So, I patched myself up, worked on the Cluck Majal the rest of the day, and periodically asked passers-by if they had seen a hen. And, lo and behold!, a neighbor came to us and reported her location! I changed into appropriate chicken catching shoes, albeit belatedly, and went in pursuit. With three others, all younger and faster than I.

We caught up with her, trespassed on several properties, tipped over stored bicycles, tried to minimize shrubbery damage. But, finally, in a riotous, shrieking, beating torrent of wings of fury and claws (the hen's, not my son's claws and wings...), my son grabbed the escapee midair.

So, tonight, we nurse our wounds and our sunburns, review our day, and count our chickens, literally. Just another day in the life of folks who choose to have animals in their lives...

Cold and wet, then hot, hot, HOT!

2010-07-06T17:42:00.000-07:00

Google image

Damn, this year's weather has been crazy. We have had a wetter than ever winter, which when you expect to get rain every day, is saying something. Then, we got deluged this spring, so much so that I had to replant garden plants that drowned and/or got stunted because of nutrients washing away. The temperatures did not allow a healthy take off, either. The wet cold lasted until the Fourth of July, then BAM! the Cosmic Emeril gave us summer weather, with a vengeance.

Today, it is over 85 F, and tomorrow, it will be 99 F. What? We have not seen any sun, and now we get scorched with too much. My poor plants. My poor white legs.

I guess I shouldn't complain. This summer season will probably only be this one week. Seriously, I would not be surprised.

Quote

2010-07-05T17:42:00.000-07:00

Invictus

William Ernest Henley

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

America, the Beautiful. Still.

2010-07-04T13:11:00.000-07:00

Happy birthday, America the beautiful. And the beleaguered, and the tested, and the under-appreciated. A dream come true, built on the hopes and prayers and vision of people who had been beleaguered and tested themselves.

America has meant different things to different people. For some, it is home, a safe haven to nestle into while going about the business of living, working and raising a family. For others, it is a place where finally, their family can have enough to eat. For still others, it is a destination to aspire to, worth risk and hardship and pain.

We are a young nation, full of the bravado and invincibility that accompanies youth. We have enjoyed our strength, our beauty, our confidence, our success. We have been willing to work together, fight side by side, and make the sacrifices necessary to assure our nation's continued existence.

But now, a new threat to our homeland has gone from festering beneath the surface to erupting into a painful, open and frightening wound. A man is at the helm who does not value our lifestyle, our past, our sacrifices, our opinions. His is an agenda that mocks what this country was created to represent and who those are who gave everything to see its birth.

Barry Soetoro, aka Barack Obama, the commander in chief of our troops, refuses to salute the troops, observe national holidays, display our flag on the same podium as he appears on, bows to the leaders of other nations, and forbids military jets to be flown in honor of national celebrations, the first president to do so.

I read in our local paper today that the lead up to this 4th of July was the least eventful and celebratory than ever before. I heard on the radio news that many towns and cities have cancelled their fireworks displays due to finances and lack of interest. We should not be surprised by this.

The effect of management attitude and policy in any business reverberates to the lowest employee level. The family reflects the acts and attitude of the parent. The classroom succeeds or fails with the teacher.

We have a selfish, unpatriotic, poorly trained, untested, smug, don't-give-a-damn political knick-knack in the President's office. He is systematically 'dissing' and destroying all that is uniquely American to those of us who know her best.

When my uber-liberal friends and coworkers brayed his qualifications for office, my constant response was 'Based on what?' What act, position, qualification, past effort or success made Barry Soetoro qualified to: a) be president, or b) make the promises he made during the election, or c) be trusted to provide change or hope? Answer: nothing. No thing.

I miss having a president I trust to love this country, and not sell us out to those who would destroy us or make us unrecognizable as a great and rich country. America is not perfect; we have faults and things we should change, absolutely. But we are pretty damn good, and no pretender to the throne has the right to embarrass, shame, ignore, or abuse our America or our Americanness. We don't even put up with that from entertainers. We need to give Barry/Barack the Dixie Chick treatment.

Dressed for Success (in Humor)

2010-07-03T15:12:00.000-07:00

My husband goes to Alaska fishing every summer, usually a couple different trips. He and the 'A' team, as he call the favorite combination of friends and relatives (all guys, of course), fish up to sixteen hours per day, interspersing meals and naps with marathon fishing.

As the days pass, the schedule begins wearing on these over-fifty guys, and everything seems hilarious. They even find humor in the cooler being mauled by a bear just feet from their sleeping forms (they were inside a plywood shelter). Often the pranks are elaborate and require not a little effort.

That silliness and exhaustion can be seen in the exchange between my husband George and his friend and guide, Brett. Brett left some rodent-type animal as a joke for George, along with specific instructions for its field dressing; 'no meat loss'. George complied, even stretching the tiny pelt beaver-trapper style and preparing the meat for consumption, dressed with fresh lettuce and condiments.

The time and effort required to careful eviscerate that tiny animal was inconsequential in the face of preparing a really great come back. Ah, Alaska, land of wilderness, wild animals, huge crab and salmon, sturdy people, and, once a year, silly fishermen from the lower 48...

Gun Names

2010-07-02T07:00:00.000-07:00

Google image, Lady Die, a Glock 27 .40 caliber semiautomatic

I am a law enforcement certified firearms instructor. I have taught cops and civilians the ins and outs of surviving a shooting incident.

When I was just a civilian handgun owner, I used to carry my concealed firearm when I took my three little kids on bikes to bike paths and parks. I expected, if I ever used the gun, it would be against a large attacking dog, several of which we had bad experiences with before I began to carry.

Later, after becoming an instructor, I advised that women name their handguns. Why?

Because once, at a crowded park and trailhead of a bike path, as I was unloading my kids' bikes, my eldest, a four year old with a high loud clear voice, asked, 'Mommy, did you bring your gun?' See, even my preschoolers knew the benefit of a gun in the face of an attacking dog. But, it was a little uncomfortable. The operative word when carrying concealed is concealed. So. I named my gun Fluffy, a sweet name for a Colt Mark IV Officer's Model .45 ACP with Hydro-Shok hollow points, don't you think?

If one of the kids said, 'Mommy, are we bringing Fluffy?', the listener would imagine some hairy little shotgun-swab dog, not a deadly weapon.

I began advising women and men with small children to name their guns to avoid a similar embarrassing occurrence.

Some of the more creative names:

Sparky

Lady Die

Mary Kay

Pink Lady (no, it was not pink)

Julie (hmmm)

Poppy

Mary Poppins

Artemis (as in the Goddess of the Hunt)

Powder Puff

Daughter is safe; other students might not be

2010-07-01T18:43:00.001-07:00

I am in the process of trying to get the standards and procedures for vetting host parents of visiting foreign students. My daughter has been place in a safe place after her ordeal, but I am left wondering how often this type of thing happens and how bad it gets.

I am told that this man, and his family, have been expelled from the host family program, a lucrative sideline they had going on, having hosted 16 former students. Their names are Roger Orezco, 47 years old, wife Mayra Fallas, 49 years old, of Sabanilla de Montes de Oca. Residencial Paso Real2, Casa 5-A, San Jose, Costa Rica.

I will keep you posted., and get pictures of him to post...

Note to an International Language Placement Advisor; Crisis...

2010-06-30T20:32:00.000-07:00

The host family father gave Emily 10 minutes to get out of his house, called her an insect and a worm, called her other names, said to go to the street where she belonged and he hoped she died trying to find help. DID YOU KNOW THIS?

What in the world is wrong with this program that you would place my daughter with an insane man who threatened her and turned her out onto the streets of San Jose, Costa Rica, telling her he hoped she died there? I want assurances that no student is ever placed there again. They were like captors; isolating her, berating her, refusing to get her medical help or support in orienting to the circumstances, then forcing her to leave within 10 minutes, before she could be safely seen into the care of the University of Costa Rica driver. She had to hide on a neighbors' porch, for God's sake!

I have called the OSU President's office, spoken with support personnel, and intend to make sure this never happens to another American student. I do not blame her for needing to be home, and immediately. She has been traumatized enough. She is not in a state of mind to concentrate on studies, and needs to get out of there. The other tragedy in this is that it is her first bad experience in a foreign country, and she has travelled extensively. Not to mention that her entire minor degree credits were able to be gained in this convenient time. We are all devastated, and very worried.

Please, please give Emily the support she needs until she is safely on her way home.

Birthday Wish for a Brother-in-law

2010-06-28T18:38:00.000-07:00

Google image

Dave,

Hi, SORRY we missed your birthday. We were doing something important, I can't remember what, not that it was more important than wishing you a big happy 65th , but then George said you might not want to be reminded, and then we thought, well, if we don't, he might feel bad, so we had a beer and thought some more and then we toasted you and then we toasted you again, and then we forgot what we were toasting, so we tried that word association game to help us remember, the way the over 55 memory class taught us, and we started with 'a', so that reminded us of alcohol, so we had a beer, and the 'b', and that reminded us of beer, so we had one, the 'c' came up, and I noticed my cup was empty, so we had a drink, which got us to 'd', and that made us realize we had finished our drinks, which got us to 'e', empty cups, so... I don't remember much else, but I think 'f' was really fun and then when we woke up it was Monday and time to go to work, so I am just now getting around to wishing you a happy 65th, and thanks for the party!

Love you!

Bottled Water: Petri Dish for Germs: ALERT!!

2010-06-27T07:00:00.000-07:00

Google image

Please be aware that bottled water has no preservatives in it. That means that once you open it, and once you put your lips to the bottle, the water has become contaminated with everything in your saliva. This includes Streptococcus mutans (S. mutans) , Staphylococcus epidermidis, Streptococcus salivarius, volatile sulphur compounds, lactobacilli, Porphyromonas gingivalis, and, recently indentified, Prevotella histicola. In other words, lots of nasty stuff.

So, you drink. And, you don't feel like drinking the entire bottle, so you put it in your car's cup holder, your work out bag, or on your desk for later. Well, if it is not refrigerated, it is now a perfect medium for growing all that stuff so you can swill down concentrated mouth bacteria the next time you take a sip.

You would be better off using tap water; most of it is chlorinated and will resist bacterial growth. Or, open a fresh bottle every time.

Oral bacteria is linked to everything from heart disease to oral cancer to strep throat, to spinal meningitis.

Don't drink bacteria smoothies; drink fresh water, every time. Finish the bottle soon after opening, or toss it.