Greetings

Greetings! 

It's been a while. A very long while.  Many trials, many joys, many near misses and a few hits since my last post.  

This, however, has been a year of hits, mostly. The animals, the property, family, friends, and at times, our spirit.

As for the hits, we felt a big one in February when my dad left this Earth for parts as yet unknown. I believe I heard his voice at the moment of his death telling me that he'd see me on the other side. On the other side of what, I wondered.  I'm still wondering. I've spent a great deal of my time since childhood wondering. Then it occurred to me that if he could say goodbye in a way that I could hear and understand, then why can't he tell me more. Why can't he tell me what, where, when, and why. I honestly don't think his voice was a hallucination. The timing was too precise. I didn't know he had passed until a few moments after I heard him. I don't question the experience, but I wonder why he can't tell me more. I guess that's just the way it is--on the other side.

He was an honest man--my dad. He measured his value and worth by the success of his children and by his ability to leave something for his kids. Unfortunately for him, both of these values took a large toll on his health and on his ability to care for himself in the latter years. I still admire his conviction, though. He knew what his life was all about. He had decided early on what his responsibilities were and how he would fulfill his obligations. 

Many times I have wondered how he did all of the things he did. How he stayed focused and committed to his goals, to his responsibilities, to his values, to the life he created for himself. I'm both amazed and sad that he spent so much of his time and energy working--at two jobs and at home. Even vacations were work for him and mom. I often feel sad for him that he must have been dog-ass tired for most of his life. But, he never quit. He never said, "I can't do it anymore". He stayed the course, no matter what. 

His was not a glamorous life, nor a fun life, nor a very diverse life, but a life well lived--by all the measures that count--his.  My husband recently said that my dad was the most honorable person he's ever known. Pat knows a lot of people, so to say that means a great deal. It meant a great deal to me; so did my dad. And so it is.

Oh Little Town of Ulm

Even though my mailing address lists us as living in Great Falls, we actually live in the tiny ranching community of Ulm, MT. Ulm lies approximately 8 miles outside of Great Falls' southern most city limit, and our house lies 3 miles further out from the town center, which consists of Quigley's Quick Stop, The Last Jump Bar and Casino, and The Village Curios Gift Shop, all of which sit kitty corner to the Ulm Post Office neatly arranged adjacent to the I-15 off ramps.

The owner's of Quigley's, a couple by the name of Chuck and Robin, often host picnics, BBQ's, and a well-attended annual Christmas party. Last year, Pat and I missed the party instead choosing to stay home to enjoy a bit of peace and quiet. After hearing about last year's party, I realized what a gem we had missed. Also missed was the opportunity to more firmly cement our place in this new community of ours.

So, this year when the date was announced and the posters in Quigley's first appeared, I dutifully marked our calendar in hopes of not missing this opportunity once again.

On Thursday, December 22nd, at 7 pm Pat and I found our place seated with a small group of friends and neighbors in the Last Jump Bar enjoying what turned out to be a feast of home cooked dishes, freshly baked holiday goodies, and a host of holiday cheer. Throughout the night, Chuck interrupted the festivities by announcing the winning numbers for dozens of door prizes all provided by him and Robin as a way of thinking the community for supporting their businesses. Before long, Pat's number was called. He reluctantly stepped forward to receive his gift along with a hearty handshake from Chuck. Back at the table he revealed his bag of treasures: a DVD, several packages of popcorn, and several boxes of candy--what a treat! A night at the movies!

Other gifts included, bags filled with coffee mugs, coffee, wall plaques, cross-stitched hand towels, beer glasses, and gift cards. But the much talked about and highly sought after prize we all waited until the end of the night for went to a rancher named, Bud--a rather large flat screen TV that Bud said he would mount over his wife's bathtub. What a nice guy.

The little town of Ulm has become our home in ways we never could have imagined. Neighbors helping neighbors, business owners thanking their customers with a party, plus a weekly food bank at the church for folks finding themselves in a pinch has become the exception rather than the norm in most towns around the country. I feel especially blessed and grateful to find myself a part of a community bound by threads of kindness and decency, and a spirit of generosity that makes me proud to call Ulm my home and the folks that make this community special my friends.

And so it is.

A Sweet Soul

Yesterday we said farewell to our beloved Uncle Charlie.

I feel most blessed and grateful for the privilege of witnessing his birth--touching his tiny paw moments after he arrived; watching him grow into a sweet and gentle being; and finally to hold that same tiny paw as he slipped away to wherever sweet and gentle souls go.

Today is indeed a sad day. We will move through the days ahead with a heavy and broken heart.

Farewell sweet soul Uncle Charlie. Your life has enriched us and we are forever changed.

June 15, 2010-October 2, 2011

From Red Lights to Red Hats

Back in the late 1800's and up until the mid 20th century, Wallace, Idaho was a bustling and bawdy silver mining town nestled in pine-covered Silver Valley near the Idaho-Montana border. Now home to less than 800 human souls, the town narrowly escaped demolition back in the late 1980's when plans for Interstate 90 showed that Wallace was in the way of progress. The town's folk, feeling quite attached to their homes and livelihoods and not at all interested in pulling up roots, instead pulled off the coup of the century. Resolute in the knowledge that historic buildings are protected from seizure and demolition by government forces, the town council and elected officials spearheaded a committee to save the town by having every last building in downtown Wallace placed on the National Registry of Historic Places. And so, Interstate 90, rather than displace Wallace, was built "over" Wallace.


Now that the Interstate brings hundreds of thousands of vehicles right over Wallace each year, and the engineers had the good sense to install an exit, the town has the potential to attract visitors--people willing to spend money on goods and services. In 2011, the once sleepy little mining town slated for demolition has blossomed into an awakened little town filled with highly motivated citizens eagerly putting their talents to work showing the world, or at least the part of the world driving above on I-90, that Wallace is worth a closer look.

Silver mining remains a big part of Wallace's economy, an underground economy, so to speak; however, above ground the pristine mountains and lakes now attract outdoor enthusiasts from around the country. Wallace and surrounding towns have capitalized on the deep powder blanketing two ski hills during most of the winter, scenic bike trails beckoning summer peddlers, and alpine lakes enticing kayakers and fisherman. To its credit, Wallace holds the title of Silver Capital of the World having produced over 1.2 billion ounces of silver since 1884, and they wear their title with great pride.

The thirteen or so weeks of summer are filled with ATV jamborees, huckleberry and gooseberry festivals, 19th century plays at the Melodrama Theatre, parades, accordion festivals, Under the Interstate Flee Markets, and good ole' fashioned hospitality. Aside from the Best Western Hotel at the edge of town, there are no chain or brand name businesses--no Walmart, no Albertson's, no Target, not even a Dairy Queen. The entire town is owned and operated by the locals. And it shows. The amount of pride, enthusiasm, attention to detail, hospitality and downright friendliness oozes out onto the colorfully decorated storefronts and sidewalks.

Last week, a group of seven women, myself included, chose family-owned and operated Brook's Hotel, centrally located in historic downtown Wallace, for a two nights' stay in order to take the 17-mile bike ride on the Route of the Hiawatha. http://www.skilookout.com/hiawatha/

While the bike ride wowed on every level with high altitude trestles and two-mile long tunnels, Wallace stole the show. On our first night before the bike ride we walked the half dozen streets comprising "downtown" taking in the architecture, reading the plaques on each "historic" building, chatting with shop owners, and inquiring where we could get a good meal. With several suggestions in hand we decided on A Taste of Aloha. Who knew that Wallace, Idaho had an authentic Hawaiian restaurant, but it does, on the corner of 6th and Pine. Dinner was a truly fun experience as we joked with the owner and his wife who were the chef and waitress respectively.

After dinner we continued walking until we found the Melodrama Theatre built in the late 1800s and in continuous use since. The poster on the window announced the next production which would begin on the next evening at 7 pm. The title: Purdy Gerdy Gets Whacked as Wallace Goes Wireless. Now, who could resist a reproduction of a play that was written, produced, and staged right here at the Melodrama Theatre a hundred years ago? Certainly not us.

Before returning to The Brook's, we found a storefront at the far edge of town across the street from the train depot with a flashing neon sign which read "Bordello Museum". Oh yeah, we're definitely checking that out before we leave. Several doors down from our hotel we passed "The Tea Shop", a fussy, frilly, cafe-style shop reminiscent of every little girl's dreams complete with lace table cloths and bone china tea sets. The sign in the window says they serve high tea in the afternoon. Oh yeah, we're definitely checking that out, too.

The next morning we arose early, ate an ample breakfast, then headed to the trail head. The ride took longer than we anticipated. Our group split into two groups, those who were cold and wanted to ride as fast as possible for warmth and to speed back to the hotel hot tub and cocktails, and the group I chose who dressed appropriately and rode leisurely stopping often to gawk and take pictures. I think I made the better choice. Later in the evening, we all met for dinner at the Jameson Saloon, then walked down the street to the Melodrama Theatre while passing a growing crowd of onlookers awaiting the ATV parade, which kicks off the 3-day ATV Jamboree. After the show, we walked the three blocks back to The Brook's Hotel passing countless ATVs parked nilly-willy along the parade route with people sitting perched on the seats visibly drunk or stoned, or both. The parade was over, but the party had just begun.

The next morning, the group who sped through the bike ride decided to head for home after a wonderful breakfast of huckleberry waffles cooked by Bill Brooks and served by his daughter, Amy. The remaining three of us had our sights set on the Bordello and the Tea Shop as well as cruising the side of the mountain that tightly held tiny little houses where most of the town's people live.

First the Bordello Museum. A local family bought the building in the late 1990's after it had been boarded up unused since the FBI raided it and shut it down in 1988. The entire second floor, which was where business was conducted had been literally frozen in time with nearly everything intact as it was on the day of the raid, including cigarette butts in the ashtrays and bags of groceries in the kitchen, not to mention the actual red lights that illuminated the stairway as well as the lounge. The girls, along with the madam, lived in the bordello. The bedrooms that the girls serviced the clients in were their actual bedrooms. The madam had very strict rules, which were posted and followed to the letter. The girls were not to leave the bordello for any reason except for their monthly doctor visits. They were, however, allowed on the back second-floor deck in the afternoon for fresh air and sun. Periodically, girls were moved to other towns, sometimes in other states, to keep them from becoming attached to their clients and to keep the supply of girls new and different.

I had expected the Museum to show prostitution as it was during Wallace's early days when the town bustled with bawdy women, raucous men, and a host of lawless characters. I suppose like many people I have a romantic notion of America's wild west with saloons, show girls, drunken brawls, lively poker games, and Miss Kitty. Instead I saw a very depressing, very unromantic, reality where young women experienced degrading, dehumanizing treatment from those who "owned" them and those who used them. We learned that at one time the entire block was considered the "red light district", which began in the late 1800s during the silver rush and lasted nearly a hundred years.

After spending the next few hours checking out every single shop and business, we headed to The Tea Shop for high tea. There were only 5 tables in the tiny crowded shop and two of them were reserved so we were asked to return in a half hour or so. This gave us ample time to cruise up the mountain and see where everyone lives. It was amazing to see houses literally clinging to the side of a cliff like a goat; it was also amazing to see the views that people wake up to each morning. A view of a beautiful valley nestled between two ranges with a town tucked underneath an Interstate.

Back at The Tea Shop, a corner table awaited our arrival. Like three bulls in a china shop, we clumsily skinnied our way past several tables, taking care not to bang our elbows or shopping bags into the sea of enormous red hats sticking out over the chairs blocking our way. It seems the reserved tables now hosted eight elderly, overdressed ladies from Wallace's chapter of The Red Hat Society. The eight women seated at two adjoining tables nibbled tea biscuits and sipped Earl Gray tea in complete and utter silence. I wasn't sure what to make of this strange behavior. Most of the Red Hat ladies I've seen have been boisterous, almost demanding the attention they sought. But not this group. Not a peep. I wondered if they thought they were behaving appropriately. I also wondered if they had done this so many times that they simply had nothing to say to one another. I also wondered if maybe their hats were too tight and they weren't getting enough circulation to the brain. Then another thought came to mind, I wondered if any of these women's husbands had visited the bordello. I also wondered if any of these women had worked at the bordello. I wondered about all of the history, all of the stories that made this town what it is, and how it had evolved from red lights to red hats.

And so it is.

Lucky Day

"WHOA", I yelled as I pulled back on the dog's leashes. All three of us stopped dead in our tracks. The girls stood still wondering why we had stopped, and I stood still wondering what the hell just ran across the road ahead of us. Apparently, I was the only one who noticed otherwise the girls would have been dancing around wanting to give chase.

We were on the driveway heading back from the mailbox as we do everyday about this time. Only about 50 feet from the mailbox and still quite a ways from the house, the three of us stood motionless while I pondered our options. First off, I couldn't imagine what I had seen. I only caught a glimpse of the creature as it ran across the road and disappeared in the tall grass. The body was as large as a Beagle and similarly colored--mostly beige with dark patches. That was all I saw as it blurred by.

As we stood in the middle of the road I continually scanned the grass trying to determine if the creature had kept running or was hunkered down nearby. Within a few moments my question was answered as my heart dropped into my shoes. Our eyes met and my mind immediately raced for some glimmer of recognition. Nothing I knew of matched the face that stared back.

The upright round ears looked like that of a koala bear. The white stripe down the middle of the face reminded me of a skunk. The rest of the face was also striped, which reminded me of......nothing. The buff colored body and dark face--still drawing a blank. Well, I thought, it must be something. And, it must be something that is watching us, waiting....

Waiting for what? Is it aggressive? Is it just curious like me? Is it waiting to jump on one of the dogs? Is it...? What the hell is it? Whatever it is it's big, perhaps 30 pounds big. That's too big. Now I'm scared. The girls still haven't seen it or gotten a whiff that something is nearby. We were a good 40-50 feet away from it, but it positioned itself only about 10 feet from the edge of the road that we needed to pass by in order to return home.

There was no way in hell I was willing to risk passing this creature with two screwy, headstrong dogs at the end of a leash, especially since it was watching us perched so close to the road.

Fortunately, Pat had just returned home from a day in the mountains with Liam and was busy outside parking the horse trailer. I called him and asked if he could come and get us. The tone in his voice immediately changed as he asked, "what's wrong?" I told him that something big was in the grass near the road and it was watching us. Without hesitation he jumped into the truck and headed down. As the truck approached, the creature disappeared into what I later saw was an enormous hole.

Once we three were safely inside the truck I described the creature to Pat. He assured me it was a badger and that I was smart not to cross its path. Apparently, badgers are known for their fierceness, their meanness, and their ability to shred anything that gets in their way.

As I later learned, the badger is mostly nocturnal so I guess I was lucky to have seen one in the middle of the afternoon. Lucky too that I saw it before walking close enough for the girls to make their howdy-do's. And lucky that Pat was home and able to rescue the three damsels in distress.

Today was indeed a lucky day. And so it is.

Photos courtesy: Google Images

Summer

Summer began yesterday, June 21st. It was the first day this year that the thermometer found 75 degrees. Spring has left us cold, damp, and up to our ears in skeeters. In fact, I have bites inside my right ear and in other orifices that skeeters shouldn't visit.

The horses stand at full attention each evening for their marinade of fly and skeeter spray generously applied and gratefully accepted. The cats, all of whom are full-grown after celebrating their first birthday on the 15th of this month, eagerly scamper into the barn before dusk to avoid the onslaught of marauding insects seeking warm blooded creatures great and small.

Puff and her sweet little boys triumphed through their first long and bitterly cold winter. Yesterday's nearly 80 degree weather found them lounging in the sun early in the morning, but by mid afternoon all were lying on the cool concrete floor inside the garage. All that is except Uncle Charlie whom I found lying on a pile of freshly shaken throw rugs tossed on a bench just outside the back door. He would occasionally lift his head and look at the kitchen window hoping to catch a glimpse of me passing by. Once the floors were washed I joined him on the bench for a well deserved rest between chores. He curled up on my lap, looked up into my eyes, sighed, then laid his head on my arm and closed his eyes. Of the three kittens, Uncle Charlie is the least likely candidate for a barn cat. He would love to come into the house and live happily ever after on a window sill watching the birds, gophers, and clouds pass by without ever wanting to go outside again. Ernie, on the other hand, doesn't mind a little tummy tickle now and then but would just assume spend all his time hunting mice and baby gophers. At the end of the day when I whistle for them to head into the barn for the night, Ernie is usually the last to arrive. He will take every last minute of daylight insisting that the barn is for sleeping and eating and he's simply not yet tired or hungry. On two occasions, he chose to stay away when called only to find himself locked out for the night. I'm not sure if he spent the night upset or not, but by morning's first light he was eagerly awaiting an opportunity to get inside with his mom and brothers.

Chip, the middle kitten, has a very sunny and happy disposition. I often see him skipping along the road merrily on his way searching for something to chase or stalk. He doesn't venture too far from the barn and is often hiding in plain sight waiting for activity to draw him out. Puff, the mother, spends much of her time napping atop the haystack in the barn. She' s not very friendly, but will walk beside me when I'm out doing chores. If I stop to visit with her she usually lets me pet her but will not tolerate being picked up.

Each night as the kittens arrive in the barn for bedtime, each in turn gets picked up for a hug and a few words of praise and appreciation. I'm not sure if they look forward to the routine, but I sure do. I so appreciate that each has had a day full of freedom and adventure, and I also appreciate that at the end of the day each of the boys along with their mom are tucked in for another safe and cozy night.

Another summer has begun. Another season of cautious conscious living. I look forward with optimism, gratitude, and eternally good humor. And so it is.

Hope Was Nowhere in Sight

It sounds like people everywhere are saying that this winter is one for the record book. I concur, it has been long and is far from over. This week a Chinook blew through bringing warm temperatures on the coat tail of heavy wind. I'm not sure which I prefer, the calm cold or the windy warm. Each offers its own benefits and challenges.

This afternoon, the dogs and I took advantage of the warm wind and walked the mile round trip to the mailbox. On the way back, Cali, our younger Springer Spaniel, broke rank and bounded to the side of the drive where she eagerly plunged her nose into a crusty snow bank. Feverishly she plowed through, back and forth, following the scent and movement of something that had found temporary refuge. Luna and I watched and waited. It was obvious she was on the track of something that was still there rather than of something that had bedded down earlier in the day but had since moved on. Her movements-- deliberate and jerky. Her determination--steadfast. Her senses--keen and accurate.

After digging, sniffing, pawing, repositioning, then digging again and again, a small brown mouse gave up the game and made a run for it. It emerged from the now decimated snow bank, hopped up onto the firm crust above its ransacked nest and ran like hell for what it hoped was nearby.

Unfortunately, hope was nowhere in sight. Only a 50-pound Springer, springing joyfully after the hard earned prize. She pounced then scooped the helpless vermin into her mouth. Luna dove in with hope of her own, but Cali turned her back, and within seconds the mouse was gone.

Thankfully it's a warm day because Cali will spend the rest of the afternoon outside...digesting....

And so it is.