Hello and welcome to the land where the snowbanks are head-high, the roads have pot holes that could swallow a Jeep, and your bloggers are as giddy as a schoolgirl.
It is a beautiful, sunny late afternoon out there, and I should be out enjoying it. But here I sit, the couch feeling ever so wonderful. Perhaps I will try to locate the headlamp, buried under piles of sheets and towels found in random closets, washers and dryers, now collecting in the jeep to the extent I can hardly see over them out the passenger side window. With only a few clouds, perhaps the moon will be bright enough for a cross-country ramble after dusk. After days and days of sun and warm, the snow is in terrible condition. Pure ice on the trails, and pure rotten sugar off the trails, tiny crystaline balls that fall inside shoes, roll down inside underwear, pack into sleeves and tops of gloves. Ice like that does not slide, does not glide, does not swish. It swallows whatever falls into it that is heavy enough to break the crust, and stops it in it's tracks. And sticking to the trail is no better, because under the dust of last night's skif is a layer of ice that laughs at the fishscales on the bottom side of my cross country skis and delights in sending me rocketing backward down the hill I am striving so hard to climb.
Every Wednesday, we go to a friends house for an evening of wholesome, vegetarian meals (speaking of which, I am responsible to take dinner next week... what am I going to bring?), hanging out and catching up with friends, and a Bible study. The last two weeks, and probably this week as well, on wednesday, I swing by their house on my way home from work, gather their three month old puppy Raisin, her leash, her chew toy, and a few treats, and take her home with me, where she entertains herself by sniffing out and munching on forgotten bits of previous dinners lurking beneath the corners of my kitchen cabinets, sampling my houseplants, and killing any earstwhile socks she can roust from under my couch while I whip up my offering to the evening meal. Then I leave the food on the counter for Bobby to bring when he comes, pull on my snowpants (at which point Raisin goes pogo-dog on me), pull my cross-country ski boots on, put a leash on Raisin, and head for the other side of the Cove "over the river and through the woods". We usually ski up just as the party is getting started, and by the time Raisin has said hello to her mommy, who has been at work all day, gotten a drink, had some dogfood, done a few sit-shake-lay-down-roll-over routines, been fed her doggie treat for being such a performer, and finally, finds a chew-toy to occupy herself with, she remembers how exhausted she is from skiing, finds her corner, and those sitting on the floor, Bibles in lap, are safe from puppy kisses and tiny, razor-sharp teeth.
Last Wednesday, I landed rather unceremoniously on various protruding parts of myself trying to avoid trees while flying down icy trails at uncomfortable speeds, then leaving said trails in an effort to slow myself, and having the lower parts of me stop so suddenly that the upper parts kept going. Since I am usually alone when this happens, I do not have to deal with all the loving that one gets when one is suddenly down and one has a friend along of the border collie/black lab variety. By the time I got myself extracted from all the kisses and manic tail-wagging, crossed up skis, akimbo poles, I had enough sugar snow down my pants to make a cake. The rest of the evening, I kept sticking to my clothes, one of those winter maladies one tends to forget about in the sumer when all is warm and dry. If you ever need advice, by the way, about the best manner in which to don your winter layers to stay dry in even the stickiest snow and the most violent tumbles, ask me. It involves items of clothing that may make you blush, but it works.
Another winter malady involves the potential for accidentally chomping down on one's tongue, becoming airborne at inoportune times, sideways at equally inoportune times, and muttering things that would make one's summer self cringe. The roads right now have attained a whole new level of bad. Snow after heavy snow, driven down before the snowplows can do their work, ice over icy layer, they were treacherously slick a few weeks ago but now they are developing slushy spots which are sprayed about when driven through. They get deeper and deeper until they are all the way to the pavement, and one never sees them until one is in them. And then- WHAM! snowboard bindings rattle overhead, suspended as they are from the rollbars, light bulbs and bars of soap leave their cushioned spots in their bins, fly about the jeep, and settle back down rearranged, shiny new goggles, hung as they are from the rearview mirror, slam into the windshield, the CD player stops playing, collects its thoughts, then resumes playing in the middle of an entirely different track, bags of sheets and towels tip over and deposit themselves in the sludge on the floor, and my knees slam into the dash. If one happened to have ones tongue between ones teeth, one may even draw blood when dropping into these sink holes in the ice and snow. And if one happened to be singing along to the song coming from the CD player, one becomes massively annoyed when, a few seconds later, The Shins becomes The Newsboys, which are fine in their own right, but not when one was in the middle of belting out "Gooooold teeth and a something this town, something my mouth, only I don't know how..." and suddenly one is expected to be all awed by a song of the forgiven, rising from the African plain. And almost guilty, because one should always be ready to be awed by the forgiven, but instead one was railing on a former love's impossible demands at maximum volume. I suppose it's my fault, for never mixing a CD with only one genre on it. I tend to mix them progressively angrier, with the soft, introspective, peaceable music on the first few tracks, then upbeat, bouncy electronic music, then harder indie alt rock, then, by the end, the angry-at-the-world-and-especially-you screamers. Since I tend to sing along with all of them, by the time I get to the end, I have a steering-wheel drumset, a headbangers headache, and I am out of breath. And one should never, ever break this progression. It causes conflicting emotions, which lead to annoyance with ones self and should be avoided at all costs. And all because one hit a pot hole.
And there is one more thing to write about, but I have been saving the best for last. It is the reason I have been bouncing of the walls in total giddy excitement lately, the reason I have been given a series of new, character-defining names, told to take my medicine, asked if I am going to have a seizure, told to breathe, and asked if I am, by any chance, happy. It is also the reason my cheeks may be a cramping a bit by now, a side effect of a perpetual ear-to-ear grin that I feel, but I am powerless to wipe off my face. After nearly seven years of hinting, of patient waiting, well... I cant tell you right now. You'll have to wait a while longer. Because it is almost dark, and I just answered the phone and accepted an invitation to go cross country skiing with some friends tonight, and I desperately need to go find my headlamp before it gets too dark to look for it.
...Later.
Ok, this merits some backing up. As most of us know, all of my best, most loyal friends through my childhood have been my animals. Brothers and sisters had I none, but I did have Unc, Hissy, and Barnie, to name a few favorite cats, and I had dogs- George, Posie, Otis, Blanca, Laika, Aussie, and Ruby, over the years. And I had bottle calves- Elsie, Ferdinand, Baby, and several others whos names escape me. And sheep that never let me be friends, only casual acquaintances. And horses- Chopo, Eric, and Sarge. And Chicory Rose, the goat. And a pet rooster named... what was it? Scooter? with legs so short he frequently got hung up in the Kochia weeds. But since I have been married, in the last six years and eight months, the only pets I have had were two long-haired cats with blue eyes and siamese markings, and odd hang-ups and needy, love-me-love-me-love-me temperaments. And through no fault of our own (except we may not have gotten them vaccinated soon enough) they both lived short lives of less than a year. After their untimely demise, we moved to Colorado, where everyone is owned by their big, slobbery dog, and we lived in a series of no-pets rentals, and I have looked on... and dreamed. And my queries, subtle and not so subtle, about whether we would ever again have a pet, have been met with not just a no, but a heck, no. A resounding one at that.
So, when we moved into our very own house, I asked again. Same answer. Not even a cat, let alone a dog. I began to feel my farmgirl, animal loving roots withering. Maybe if we ever live out in the country, he said. But not here, with no fence. Not now, we're too busy. We like our independance. Our house smells like new carpet and fresh paint, and wonderful nothingness.
Bobby, on the other hand, has never had a pet, except for a few ill-behaved cats Marci had when she was younger. So you can imagine his puzzlement over the fact that I would even want a stinky, flea-ridden hairball living in my house.
Fast forward to this monday, when my mom and I were sitting in my sunny, south facing living room, absorbing some much-coveted heat and discussing, you guessed it, animals. Dog breeds. Since it is our bit, and we both know our lines, I gave Bobby his cue: "Honey, can we get a dog?" His line: "What the heck for?" My line: "Uhhhh... so I can have company out on the trails!" His line: "You know you have to take care of it when you're not out there, don't you? And I just hate a house that smells like dog (insert personal favorite word for whatever comes out of the back end of Rover)" and so on... But this time, since I was googling which dog breeds are considered the smartest, I asked him, "How about a Golden Retriever?"
There's always a magic button. A password. Open Sesame. Speak the elvish word for Friend, and the door to the mines of Moria open. (yeah, we're Lord of the Rings fans.)For Bobby, it was "Dog", nothing. "Puppy", nothing. But "Golden Retriever"? His eyes lit up, and he got that look that tells me something might have lodged right in between heck and no. He began telling us about Doogan, a neighbors dog back when they lived in Breckenridge, and how good he was with them as kids, and how funny he was, eating strawberries as if he liked them.
That was Monday. This is Friday. This morning, I reserved and paid for a five week old Golden Retriever. In the picture sent to me by his breeder, he is gazing out at the world with eyes a bit out of focus with a "huh?" expression. When we go get him in three weeks, he will be a bit more used to the big, confusing world. I will have to potty train him in the middle of the March rush, taking him with me in the Jeep. We are fully aware that we will not be sleeping much between trips outside in the wee hours to tinkle, crying for mommy, chewing on everything in sight, besides us needing to keep hordes of spring breakers happy. I guess if we have to (metaphorically) change diapers, at least one of our subjects will be cuter than a bug. That's more than we can say for the groups of college students who shoulda been trained a bit better.
It is a beautiful, sunny late afternoon out there, and I should be out enjoying it. But here I sit, the couch feeling ever so wonderful. Perhaps I will try to locate the headlamp, buried under piles of sheets and towels found in random closets, washers and dryers, now collecting in the jeep to the extent I can hardly see over them out the passenger side window. With only a few clouds, perhaps the moon will be bright enough for a cross-country ramble after dusk. After days and days of sun and warm, the snow is in terrible condition. Pure ice on the trails, and pure rotten sugar off the trails, tiny crystaline balls that fall inside shoes, roll down inside underwear, pack into sleeves and tops of gloves. Ice like that does not slide, does not glide, does not swish. It swallows whatever falls into it that is heavy enough to break the crust, and stops it in it's tracks. And sticking to the trail is no better, because under the dust of last night's skif is a layer of ice that laughs at the fishscales on the bottom side of my cross country skis and delights in sending me rocketing backward down the hill I am striving so hard to climb.
Every Wednesday, we go to a friends house for an evening of wholesome, vegetarian meals (speaking of which, I am responsible to take dinner next week... what am I going to bring?), hanging out and catching up with friends, and a Bible study. The last two weeks, and probably this week as well, on wednesday, I swing by their house on my way home from work, gather their three month old puppy Raisin, her leash, her chew toy, and a few treats, and take her home with me, where she entertains herself by sniffing out and munching on forgotten bits of previous dinners lurking beneath the corners of my kitchen cabinets, sampling my houseplants, and killing any earstwhile socks she can roust from under my couch while I whip up my offering to the evening meal. Then I leave the food on the counter for Bobby to bring when he comes, pull on my snowpants (at which point Raisin goes pogo-dog on me), pull my cross-country ski boots on, put a leash on Raisin, and head for the other side of the Cove "over the river and through the woods". We usually ski up just as the party is getting started, and by the time Raisin has said hello to her mommy, who has been at work all day, gotten a drink, had some dogfood, done a few sit-shake-lay-down-roll-over routines, been fed her doggie treat for being such a performer, and finally, finds a chew-toy to occupy herself with, she remembers how exhausted she is from skiing, finds her corner, and those sitting on the floor, Bibles in lap, are safe from puppy kisses and tiny, razor-sharp teeth.
Last Wednesday, I landed rather unceremoniously on various protruding parts of myself trying to avoid trees while flying down icy trails at uncomfortable speeds, then leaving said trails in an effort to slow myself, and having the lower parts of me stop so suddenly that the upper parts kept going. Since I am usually alone when this happens, I do not have to deal with all the loving that one gets when one is suddenly down and one has a friend along of the border collie/black lab variety. By the time I got myself extracted from all the kisses and manic tail-wagging, crossed up skis, akimbo poles, I had enough sugar snow down my pants to make a cake. The rest of the evening, I kept sticking to my clothes, one of those winter maladies one tends to forget about in the sumer when all is warm and dry. If you ever need advice, by the way, about the best manner in which to don your winter layers to stay dry in even the stickiest snow and the most violent tumbles, ask me. It involves items of clothing that may make you blush, but it works.
Another winter malady involves the potential for accidentally chomping down on one's tongue, becoming airborne at inoportune times, sideways at equally inoportune times, and muttering things that would make one's summer self cringe. The roads right now have attained a whole new level of bad. Snow after heavy snow, driven down before the snowplows can do their work, ice over icy layer, they were treacherously slick a few weeks ago but now they are developing slushy spots which are sprayed about when driven through. They get deeper and deeper until they are all the way to the pavement, and one never sees them until one is in them. And then- WHAM! snowboard bindings rattle overhead, suspended as they are from the rollbars, light bulbs and bars of soap leave their cushioned spots in their bins, fly about the jeep, and settle back down rearranged, shiny new goggles, hung as they are from the rearview mirror, slam into the windshield, the CD player stops playing, collects its thoughts, then resumes playing in the middle of an entirely different track, bags of sheets and towels tip over and deposit themselves in the sludge on the floor, and my knees slam into the dash. If one happened to have ones tongue between ones teeth, one may even draw blood when dropping into these sink holes in the ice and snow. And if one happened to be singing along to the song coming from the CD player, one becomes massively annoyed when, a few seconds later, The Shins becomes The Newsboys, which are fine in their own right, but not when one was in the middle of belting out "Gooooold teeth and a something this town, something my mouth, only I don't know how..." and suddenly one is expected to be all awed by a song of the forgiven, rising from the African plain. And almost guilty, because one should always be ready to be awed by the forgiven, but instead one was railing on a former love's impossible demands at maximum volume. I suppose it's my fault, for never mixing a CD with only one genre on it. I tend to mix them progressively angrier, with the soft, introspective, peaceable music on the first few tracks, then upbeat, bouncy electronic music, then harder indie alt rock, then, by the end, the angry-at-the-world-and-especially-you screamers. Since I tend to sing along with all of them, by the time I get to the end, I have a steering-wheel drumset, a headbangers headache, and I am out of breath. And one should never, ever break this progression. It causes conflicting emotions, which lead to annoyance with ones self and should be avoided at all costs. And all because one hit a pot hole.
And there is one more thing to write about, but I have been saving the best for last. It is the reason I have been bouncing of the walls in total giddy excitement lately, the reason I have been given a series of new, character-defining names, told to take my medicine, asked if I am going to have a seizure, told to breathe, and asked if I am, by any chance, happy. It is also the reason my cheeks may be a cramping a bit by now, a side effect of a perpetual ear-to-ear grin that I feel, but I am powerless to wipe off my face. After nearly seven years of hinting, of patient waiting, well... I cant tell you right now. You'll have to wait a while longer. Because it is almost dark, and I just answered the phone and accepted an invitation to go cross country skiing with some friends tonight, and I desperately need to go find my headlamp before it gets too dark to look for it.
...Later.
Ok, this merits some backing up. As most of us know, all of my best, most loyal friends through my childhood have been my animals. Brothers and sisters had I none, but I did have Unc, Hissy, and Barnie, to name a few favorite cats, and I had dogs- George, Posie, Otis, Blanca, Laika, Aussie, and Ruby, over the years. And I had bottle calves- Elsie, Ferdinand, Baby, and several others whos names escape me. And sheep that never let me be friends, only casual acquaintances. And horses- Chopo, Eric, and Sarge. And Chicory Rose, the goat. And a pet rooster named... what was it? Scooter? with legs so short he frequently got hung up in the Kochia weeds. But since I have been married, in the last six years and eight months, the only pets I have had were two long-haired cats with blue eyes and siamese markings, and odd hang-ups and needy, love-me-love-me-love-me temperaments. And through no fault of our own (except we may not have gotten them vaccinated soon enough) they both lived short lives of less than a year. After their untimely demise, we moved to Colorado, where everyone is owned by their big, slobbery dog, and we lived in a series of no-pets rentals, and I have looked on... and dreamed. And my queries, subtle and not so subtle, about whether we would ever again have a pet, have been met with not just a no, but a heck, no. A resounding one at that.
So, when we moved into our very own house, I asked again. Same answer. Not even a cat, let alone a dog. I began to feel my farmgirl, animal loving roots withering. Maybe if we ever live out in the country, he said. But not here, with no fence. Not now, we're too busy. We like our independance. Our house smells like new carpet and fresh paint, and wonderful nothingness.
Bobby, on the other hand, has never had a pet, except for a few ill-behaved cats Marci had when she was younger. So you can imagine his puzzlement over the fact that I would even want a stinky, flea-ridden hairball living in my house.
Fast forward to this monday, when my mom and I were sitting in my sunny, south facing living room, absorbing some much-coveted heat and discussing, you guessed it, animals. Dog breeds. Since it is our bit, and we both know our lines, I gave Bobby his cue: "Honey, can we get a dog?" His line: "What the heck for?" My line: "Uhhhh... so I can have company out on the trails!" His line: "You know you have to take care of it when you're not out there, don't you? And I just hate a house that smells like dog (insert personal favorite word for whatever comes out of the back end of Rover)" and so on... But this time, since I was googling which dog breeds are considered the smartest, I asked him, "How about a Golden Retriever?"
There's always a magic button. A password. Open Sesame. Speak the elvish word for Friend, and the door to the mines of Moria open. (yeah, we're Lord of the Rings fans.)For Bobby, it was "Dog", nothing. "Puppy", nothing. But "Golden Retriever"? His eyes lit up, and he got that look that tells me something might have lodged right in between heck and no. He began telling us about Doogan, a neighbors dog back when they lived in Breckenridge, and how good he was with them as kids, and how funny he was, eating strawberries as if he liked them.
That was Monday. This is Friday. This morning, I reserved and paid for a five week old Golden Retriever. In the picture sent to me by his breeder, he is gazing out at the world with eyes a bit out of focus with a "huh?" expression. When we go get him in three weeks, he will be a bit more used to the big, confusing world. I will have to potty train him in the middle of the March rush, taking him with me in the Jeep. We are fully aware that we will not be sleeping much between trips outside in the wee hours to tinkle, crying for mommy, chewing on everything in sight, besides us needing to keep hordes of spring breakers happy. I guess if we have to (metaphorically) change diapers, at least one of our subjects will be cuter than a bug. That's more than we can say for the groups of college students who shoulda been trained a bit better.
And Bobby is about as giddy as I am, although we are both wondering when he will come to his senses and realize he has done something terribly out of character. But considering how many times I have told him how pleased I am with him, he is almost stuck with it now.
...Ahh, I am back from a brisk ski. Nothing beats a winter night. Well, nothing but any other time of day, any other time of year. I guess I must really like it here if I can be as thrilled about winter night time as summer afternoons. There is something about a hard workout confined to a circle of light, ones consciousness confined to the sound of skis on snow, the sight of only what slides in and out of the circle created by ones headlamp, cold breeze on ones face, hot and sweating inside light jackets and snowpants in spite of the fact that the thermometer says it is 14 degrees F. Something that puts one into a happy place. I am back now, as mellow as Raisin was a few minutes ago, when she climbed herself onto her bed, turned around a few times, and plopped down with a sigh, as happy to be home as she was to be out on the trails. I petted her and told her goodnight before driving home, and her kisses on my hand were warm and gentle, lacking the usual sharp puppy teeth. I am feeling a bit toothless myself. And Bobby is on the couch. I think it's a good evening to fall asleep on the couch with him.
For a trip down memory lane, I have included a few pictures from the "animated' childhood I got to experience out there on the high plains. Enjoy, but pardon the glare. Since I have no scanner, I have to take pictures of pictures, if they predate the time of the digital camera. Anyway, I have come to appreciate more than ever how rich my childhood was, and what a good springboard a childhood full of animal training and non-verbal communication was for the rest of my life. Anyway, these are a few that always make me smile, for whatever the reason.
...Ahh, I am back from a brisk ski. Nothing beats a winter night. Well, nothing but any other time of day, any other time of year. I guess I must really like it here if I can be as thrilled about winter night time as summer afternoons. There is something about a hard workout confined to a circle of light, ones consciousness confined to the sound of skis on snow, the sight of only what slides in and out of the circle created by ones headlamp, cold breeze on ones face, hot and sweating inside light jackets and snowpants in spite of the fact that the thermometer says it is 14 degrees F. Something that puts one into a happy place. I am back now, as mellow as Raisin was a few minutes ago, when she climbed herself onto her bed, turned around a few times, and plopped down with a sigh, as happy to be home as she was to be out on the trails. I petted her and told her goodnight before driving home, and her kisses on my hand were warm and gentle, lacking the usual sharp puppy teeth. I am feeling a bit toothless myself. And Bobby is on the couch. I think it's a good evening to fall asleep on the couch with him.
For a trip down memory lane, I have included a few pictures from the "animated' childhood I got to experience out there on the high plains. Enjoy, but pardon the glare. Since I have no scanner, I have to take pictures of pictures, if they predate the time of the digital camera. Anyway, I have come to appreciate more than ever how rich my childhood was, and what a good springboard a childhood full of animal training and non-verbal communication was for the rest of my life. Anyway, these are a few that always make me smile, for whatever the reason.
The first one... I remember that night. We had just dragged ourselves home from "our" eighth aniversary, and in spite of feeding the seagulls and swallowing shrimp whole because I couldnt stand to chew the rubbery little guys, there was just nothing that could beat the sheer luxury of being home, in the middle of a vibrating pile of cats, right where I belonged. Considering the welcome I received, it may be they missed me as much as I missed them.
The second one... I remember that day, too. That was a calf we never could keep in the feedlot, he was former bottle baby as well as an escape artist. Kay, the german girl living with Grandpa and Grandma, snapped this picture just moments before the calf blew a snot-laden snort in the cat's face, and the cat vacated my arms, leaving long scratches in her wake.
The third one...poor grandpa had to get so many calves, rejected by their mothers, to learn to suck. I love this picture.
The forth one...From left to right, Ruby, Aussie, Chopo,
Elsie, me, Baby, Ferdie, and Eric.
Elsie, me, Baby, Ferdie, and Eric.The fifth one...Chopo. She humbled me, she tossed me on my head, she eventually turned into a friend.
Oh, and she became quite the surrogate mother to Elsie.
Oh, and she became quite the surrogate mother to Elsie.The sixth one... Sarge and Eric. Eric was completely blind, Sarge was a former racehorse, a thoroughbred, and as hard-mouthed as they come. It was a feat just gettin my foot in the stirrup, because his withers were over my head. Once he started running, he didnt stop. Every time we went out, I was riding a runaway at least once during the ride. But nontheless, he was a great big softie. And riding Eric... he was trusting, and my experience with Chopo prepared me for Eric. Eric was the one baby I cold ride with no tack whatsoever, just with a hand on either side of his neck, pressure fom my knees, and he did not question. I was the only one, though. He tossed several others over the fence. Sarge is the tall sorrel, and Eric is the Appaloosa with just his head in the picture. And don't even ask about the bare feet in the horse corral. It is a good thing I had my tetanus shots back then.
