While We Watched TV

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A couple of very dear old friends called from the middle of Arizona recently to say that they were headed my way. They had been on a sporting trip to the Dakotas from Ohio and decided to take the long way home. If you are doing retirement right, that is what you do and they were obviously enjoying their new found freedom from work schedules to the max.
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"Could you handle a couple of visitors tomorrow?" "Are you kidding? You bet! Come on over!" And then I hung up the phone and panicked; this tiny house was in no shape to receive civilized company, what with the guest room serving as a hospice center for dying cats lately and the healthy indoor cats taken to shredding the many cardboard boxes still piled up in the living room. Eeeks! The shop vac was immediately deployed to suck up anything smaller than a sewer rat (not that the cats left anything larger than a germ running around, mind you), the guest bed linens were finally found and the freezer was thoroughly probed for possible meal fodder on short notice. A big lasagna could definitely be created from the supplies on hand. All right! I was still in the shower trying to coax out the the last of my adrenaline supplies when they arrived.
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There is something divinely energizing in enthusiastic and heart-felt bear hugs from stalwart friends and we were soon catching up on our latest projects with great zeal.
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We bubbled back out to the driveway where Ed showed me his latest 'His and Hers' traveling toy boxes made from Baltic Birch. I could not doubt that he had put hundreds of hours of thought and planning into this latest project, given his ingenious use of materials, space and security features. But, as to be expected from a perfectionist, he is already mentally designing the next generation of ideal toy boxes.
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Terry and I had always deeply admired their ingenuity and creativity and so I was able to hatch a plan to keep them around for another day. They were the ideal and appreciative audience for a trip up the mountain to visit a museum of one man's pure imagination.
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Welcome to Tinker Town, a little known attraction east of Albuquerque.

For anyone who appreciates limitless imagination and the reuse of found and abandoned materials, this is truly the place for you.
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A placard announces that over 70,000 discarded bottles were used in creating the many walls that rise and twist throughout his sprawling creation.
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Expect the unexpected everywhere. Did this cement face exist before the column? Did the rubble stone column spring to life only to give this face a home? Did the face or column need to exist at all? I am glad that he thought so, for whatever reason.
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Even a rusted Radio red wagon could find its vintage self cemented into one of this man's tsunamis of imagination.
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The edifices advanced themselves more as small, distinct lineal fancies subject to whim and materials at hand than to any grand master plan. The result was a series of galleries rising and falling in defiance of practicality and decorum or logical expectations, often creating impromptu and spurious courtyards as the one shown above.
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The upper most part of a gate which promises more adventure and delight in the meandering outdoor allies beyond the main sheltered galleries. Beyond findings and salvaged materials, he took plenty of time to exercise his own 'from scratch' talents.
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Above: The lower part of the alley gate; more found objects and saucy admonitions worked into whimsical architectural exercises at every turn. You can click on any of these photos for a larger view. Balconies, niches and columns with no reason for being other than to please their creator at that very moment. The right brain ... unharnessed fully and shamelessly.
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Hopefully, I will be back next week to wrap up this tour of Tinker Town!
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Making Do and Saving Big Bucks

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This is a pre-New Mexico reno post inspired by a blog pal's recent acquisition of her very own home. Along with an outrageously enviable original claw-foot tub and massive farm sink, she also got a set of metal cabinets. They were vintage enough, much like rounded corner refrigerators and Buicks of the day, but don't quite have that warming comfort factor of grandma's old wooden cabinets so I will show you what I did on a very limited budget to make over steel cabinets.
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I remember watching the first edition of 'This Old House' back in the late 70s. Their first project was nearly identical to the 1880s Second Empire Mansardic rehab nightmare which I was working on so I was initially enthralled with the program. It didn't take me long to realize that the producers lived in a very different reality than I; for them, money and budget was not the same priority and I soon became disillusioned with their "Hey, this is old, it has to go! Let's order a fancy replacement through an expensive custom shop." Sigh, here I was salvaging every 2x4 and scrounging through junk stores and clearance sales for my materials ... we soon parted ways on our obviously very different circumstances and missions.
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Above: Here is the kitchen in the last pre-New Mexico home that we bought. It was nearly twice the size of the kitchen in the ranch Rat or the one I have now so it was glorious, even 'as is'. The owners in the late 60s through the late 80s had reworked the entire house with multiple good salaries on tap but very little taste for what might survive the ensuing years with a more timeless dignity. They did keep the very sturdy metal cabinets and Don had a specialist come in later to faux paint them in his favorite flavor of the moment - barn board. Eeeks ... why don't ya just scream tie-dye and polyester bellbottoms?

The soffits over the cabinets also made the room seem at least two foot more narrow as they imposed themselves like drooling gargoyles from the ceiling - they HAD to go away ASAP. The problem with removing soffits is often that someone ran soffits to hide wires, heating vents and gawd-knows what else. I managed to find ALL of these hidden monsters, of course. I discovered all sorts of odd and disturbing things during that project, including a ghost stair case in the adjoining wall. Peering through the lathe at those hidden stairs was like looking into the gullet of the Titanic for the first time - all festooned with dusty hanging webs which swayed eerily in the new breaths of fresh air. I think I might have seen it all in the last thirty five years of restoring old houses. You just have to take the surprises as they come and sort of enjoy the adventure or you would never attempt anything. It all makes for great tales later on so never shy away from crowbar adventures.

The best thing they did for that kitchen was install an electric Jennair grill/range in a new center island and that would stay. All I would had to do with the Jennair was eventually find extra plug-in accessories cheap at the recycling place and then install a supercharger on the vent ducting later. I did usurp the lunch counter overhang which had REAL barn board on it and make a new facade which has two bins built-in around the size of paper grocery bags, one for pure garbage and one for recycling or burnables. Paper grocery bags are free if you ask so why not?

Mind you, with only two standard electric cooking elements, I longed for my gas stove. What I did was close in the second doorway to the dining room (as seen on the far right) and put my gas stove and spice racks in that reclaimed space. Having access to both gas and electric cook elements was divine since they both have their own very different glories and low spots.

The metal cabinets were of incredibly good gauge and quality (much better quality and strength than even mid-range new and mostly particle board cabinets) so I chose to veneer over them with the 3/8ths inch pine bead board that you can buy 14 square feet to a pack. These pine planks were incredibly affordable at the time but I recently noticed that they had nearly doubled in price since then. But they remain a relatively affordable material which you can even pare away at with an exacto knife if need be.

Being the fastidious perfectionist, I would measure, go out to the barn where my shop was, cut maybe two or three pieces and then return to install them and start measuring the next pieces. It would get down to as low as five degrees below outside (and in the shop) during this project. I finally put a lit incandescent bulb under the table saw motor to stop throwing breakers in the main house panel when the saw motor would lurch and draw too many amps on start up. I used to have a lot of patience for tedium and nonsense back then.

I also replaced the poopy brown ceramic tile splash back with pine while I was at it. You have to be pretty slovenly to need a water-proof back-splash and the pine held up just fine for our daily use.

Later, we hung a heavily embossed wallpaper on the ceiling and then I stenciled around the room in barn red and did the same for the ceiling fan blades.

We eventually replaced the dated vinyl flooring with solid oak which we installed ourselves very slowly with screws rather than nails. This floor was never going to squeak or shift after we were done with it!

I kept the greenish agate formica counters since they no longer fought with the conflicting green hue in the faux barn-board paint on the cabinets. It was in great shape, well, maybe except for that little drill hole from when Big Don and I had been working on a carb jet. I will never forget Big Don's 'bad boy' thrill when we did that; he got one of his wonderful big kid grins and said "WOW! This is really cool! Ya know, my wife would have killed me if I had ever done this in 'her' kitchen!". Aw, heck, that was one mess-up that I could fill in perfectly with a little model car paint later, no big deal.
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So here is the later 'after' photo. Maybe it doesn't look like a big-buck kitchen but, for the materials price and labor, we loved the results. And we enjoyed the many memories, both good and bad, that we gathered in the process. Don't ever hesitate with your own living space - some of the best rehabbers I knew had started out with not much more than a dream and ambition. Now, with the internet, the world of information, inspiration and advice is even closer. Just start it ...the answers and solutions will come. And, hey, I am here when you need moral support and more.
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I disabled comments again since I am now on my third inexcusably irresponsible accounting type and probably won't get back to posting often or visiting my blogs friends until this mess is cleared up. I have been tormented with this moronic buffoonery until I go to bed and then first thing upon waking up for over a year and a half now. All new house projects are on severe lock down until these bozos do their work.
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The Dream That Got Away

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These photos were uploaded months ago. Then all post progress stopped in its tracks until now. While I had always presumed that my writing came from within my heart, I discovered otherwise this year. I had always managed to write through some pretty devastating heart breaks in the past. Writing had apparently come from my spirit, my spunk, my soul and those aspects were nearly crushed this year. If not for an unexpected but too brief visit from Terry this Spring, even the very spark of corporeal life itself would have extinguished for me. That spark might not be very strong but at least it remains for the time being and despite the events since his death. Fate has since fired another shot across my bow to remind me that many things have to be addressed as soon as possible when I had a noticeable second heart attack a few weeks ago. It was obviously not ‘the big one’ in that several aspirins and sitting so very quietly got me through this one as well. It had also worked once for Terry while we awaited his appointment with a specialist, one that came too late.

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I could write volumes here about the brutal injustices of our health insurance system, our misplaced trust and faith in humans, ignoring on good faith the blatant red flags people present and more as cautionary tales for your own edification. Perhaps I will not rekindle my joy in writing until I do but doing so also goes against my own old inclinations. “Mother, I am still trying to turn the other cheek and remain silent as you so wished but my neck now looks like a barley-twist table leg and I am suffocating from the silence.” I have been nearly mortally offended by abuse of our trust as much as Terry was. Perhaps we were simply unsuited anachronisms for this new age. I know that Terry, like I, was deeply hurt by the number of people who abused our old-fashioned trust in the last five years and deeply frustrated to be told that we should be the ones who needed to change; to become as suspicious and even as hard, self-serving and larcenous as those around us. He had been the most principled, caring and most ethical man I had ever met and he stuck by that character to the very end. And he apparently remained my best friend beyond death, despite the vicious ad hominem attacks by those who rushed in to step on my neck when my face was already pressed deeply into the dirt of surviving without his protection. The great irony of those attacks was that those very people had contributed most to his final and deadly physical heart strain. One even had him breaking ice all winter under the impression that he was employed but offered him nothing at the end. Terry was deeply hurt by that treatment but said nothing to me about it until the day before he died. I would like to write more about his brief after-death visit and how he had me look for and discover the answer to so many troubling mysteries in the last five years of his life and our life together but I cannot venture further at the moment for this is already so hard to commit to paper. But I would like to thank him here for remaining my best friend still. I hope you all find such a friend in this life before you are done with this short earth dance. I also thank our old friends John, Virgil and his wife, and Robin and Jess for sticking by us both after the good times train ended abruptly. God takes copious notes, ever and always, and whether you believe in Him or not.

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To bid adieu to this year, I wanted to share our first but short-lived dream-come-true with you. We never forgot this place. Being only five minutes from pavement and closer to medical aide, it is possible that Terry might have even still been alive now if we had persevered. Ironically, it is up for sale again but then I realized that the agent just cost me over $2K because he couldn’t be bothered to help me out with an agent’s appraisal of our ranch for estate purposes. He sold us the place, had all the paperwork already. You would think that he might do it as an ‘in’ to get the inevitable listing at least. Excuse my language but .... what a complete and utter dickhead.

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Soooo ... I will now share the photos of this first magnificent place with you but without any link to the agent - there is some minor satisfaction in that at least. And, typical of most RE agents, they never presented these most breath-taking views of the ranch. I hope you enjoy this tour as much as we did.

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This was the ranch which excited us the most in our search for our dream home. .
.. The photos in the listing weren't even as lovely as this one. Once we got there, the sense of awe increased with every mile spent in the agent's well-bruised 4WD truck.
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. Here is Terry with the showing agent; a sawed-off little man who we liked less as the hours of conversation progressed. He used to be in the 'sell and repo' trailer business and hadn't fallen far from that avocation and mindset since.
.. The views became more captivating as we climbed up into the far ranch lands.
. This place covered ten square miles of widely varied vistas that kept getting better and better.
.Shorty and Terry again, this time in the wind-carved sandstone sculptures.
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It had your own private mini grand canyon views. Chaco Canyon lay just ten miles to the south and visible here if you knew where to look.

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In our unbridled enthusiasm, we made the mistake of taking old 'friends' back out there with us on our second viewing. When the male of the pair panned the place completely and so negatively, we were caught totally off guard and declined when our offer was met with full asking price. The lesson here is to NEVER let anyone put you off your heart's desire. Please learn from our regrettable mistakes and misplaced trust - only you can pursue and will live in your dream in the end. Surround yourself with positive friends and quickly discard those who rarely have anything positive to say about your dreams or they just might also step on your neck later when you need them the most.

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Here's to a hopefully better year for all of us. I know you have all had your own challenges this year as well but please know that Terry and I are here cheering you on. Don't stop the good fight now ... we're just warming up!

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Cats and a Hot Tin Ceiling

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We've been making a lot of progress around here but none of the works are really complete. Nor have I accomplished one iota of success on the paper end of life so I am at a loss to post a real progress update.
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I did, however, decide to post this one for Thud who was as taken as I with the possibilities in these new tin ceiling (or wall) panels.
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Here are the three patterns which I selected in their raw finish. Cats show the scale. Well, not really, but they are omnipresent outdoors lately no matter what I do. Each panel is 2 foot by 2 foot.
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The panel on the left is the pattern which you saw being installed on the kitchen ceiling by John and company. You will see that the middle panel is very similar in design but a quarter of the scale of the left one. This middle panel will be used as splashback on the walls behind the counters. Again, all these panels will need a final protective finish since the shiny tin plating will not avoid corrosion for long. Lately, the big box DIY stores are offering this design in thermoplastic in a smaller size - pretty but for over twice the price. As for me, I like the idea that my metal blacksplash behind the range top will not melt into incendiary blobs if one of my cooking sessions goes wildly astray.
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On the right side is my absolute favorite, the large Gothic quatrefoil. Terry would have loved this one, too, and the bonus is that it was cheaper than the other more popular patterns. If this house would have had ceilings even one foot taller, I would have sprung to do the living room in this design and set to rebuilding Terry's library ASAP. And to that, I would have added Gothic wainscotting panels from another supplier to the lower half of the walls.
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Instead, these Gothic panels will become the ceiling of the very tiny (5'x10') bathroom. I will likely devise a clear coat to make them look brassy. There is something amusing for me in placing them in a room much smaller than some people's walk-in closets. It's a sort of defiant sound bite grandeur that appeals to me no end.
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The tins come in a stunning array of colors and finishes but those were priced well beyond my budget. You can see their many customer project photos at Tin panel album. To see the raw tins that I ordered, go to their Unfinished Tin page. I just checked this URL and the first two patterns I ordered have already gone up by a dollar! Ouch! But still, you will find that the square foot price is reasonable when compared to many other materials. For that matter, they are much less expensive than prices on the mid-range ceramic flooring tile that I have been considering. Well, in reality, the bathroom floor tile that I REALLY wanted was four times more expensive than the ceiling panels. That just ain't gonna happen in this life ... sigh.
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More feline panel inspectors join in, these ones are a little smaller than most.
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And here is a small part of the entourage which followed me out to take panel photos. "All deez cats!!!" Oh my.
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I disabled the 'comments' option this time because, frankly, I am ashamed that I haven't been around to visit your blogs in ages. I'm serious, I feel like an absolute heel about it. You, my blog friends, have been the source of my encouragement to keep plugging on through many times of hell-inspired torments and I will never forget that. Maybe, just maybe, by early winter, things will start to settle down and I can return to my enjoyable blog social life again. But look for me again in another month no matter what.
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In the meantime, I hope that you and Thud will be inspired by these fabulous tin panels as much as I was! Be sure to let me know if you use them in your own projects (Mushy - I know you can sell her on them, too) and I will link them into future posts! Be inspired, dream, delight ... and do!
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Progress in the Pumpkin Shell!

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Would someone mind telling me what happened to June and July? I have heard that they were each at least five days long but it sure didn't seem like it. I'm still not convinced of it either.
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But some progress on the house has been made despite my planning and envisioning skills and some friends have been asking for photo updates for months now so here they are. I normally don't like to show a project before it is completely done but, at this rate, I am not going to have them wait forever either. You see, I will finish off certain parts of these projects myself but not until I get my wood shop out of the big trailer and set up again. Here enters the rub; with a house so small, I need to have mostly finished places to receive the considerable trailer contents burying my shop tools. That's where my most excellent help comes in. I supply the electricity, they bring their own tools - yes, yes, they can actually find their work tools! How novel a concept! Now I will introduce you to some of my fabulous helpers:
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Here is 'Jimmy the Drywaller'. See that impish grin? That is Jimmy consistently, accompanied by an absolutely mischievous, delightful laugh. He has the most positive and upbeat personality and outlook that I had found in ages so he was a blessing to have around hanging drywall in the living room, the bedroom, the kitchen and the well-house. He is incredibly content living a lifestyle below his means in a paid-off house with a few dogs, his barbecue and no debt. There is something very wise in his lifestyle choices that we should all pay attention to, the sooner the better, in fact.

This photo shows him applying a second skim coat to the original in-your-face, grate-an-orange or grate-a-moose wall texture. I wanted something a little imperfect in the otherwise smoother new finish. He did his best but neither of us were ever very good at intentional imperfection to imitate folk half-fast style. We got a little better at it by the time he did the main bedroom but that report is for another time down the road.
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And here is "James the Floor Guy" (not to be confused with Jimmy the Drywaller). He's another delight to have around although his compressor drove me to utter distraction because it would kick in nearly every time I got on the phone in an effort to deal with those still daunting business matters.

James is another fascinating and interesting guy to talk with - broad and unexpected connections and a widely varied skill set. He remains an active custom potter and, although less often now, a musician (rock and blues, former regular gigs at the Mineshaft in Madrid, etc) . And a very dedicated soccer dad.

Above, taken after he finished the bedroom, worked his way down the hall and was now headed west with the living room floor. The next step would be heading east from center and doing the dining area and kitchen. Yesh, yesh!!!
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The kitchen begins metamorphosis!

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The 'before photo'. This is what the kitchen looked like when I finally arrived. W&G had done little or no packing up before I arrived a month and some late (an abandonment of original plans that worked oddly well to their benefit) so my kitchen goods are shown sitting in the brown box pile in the center and would remain that way for another month or more. It was extremely taxing to forestall that need to nest and settle in afresh after Terry died. It was a stability and sense of permanence that I desperately needed but didn't establish until just now and it had painfully prolonged that off feeling of being yet another homeless person alone on this cold and rocky planet. Having a comfortable and predictable nest is good, even if it is just being able to sleep atop your motorcycle, up above the creepy crawlies in the desert. Been there, too - but you get achier and fussier when you hit this old fart stage, just trust me on that.

Gayle had done a good job of stripping and painting the cabinets when they arrived and I had thought about repainting them myself but I finally had to admit that they were utter crap. There were some cabinets which I dared not put anything in since they were pulling apart and visibly threatening to collapse or fall off the wall. So, for the first time in my life and aided by failing stamina and a profound lack of enthusiasm, I decided to buy new cabinets. With the failing appliances that the 'home inspector' missed, I also decided to bite the bullet and buy new appliances. My hard-learned lesson from this was "Don't waste your money on home inspectors - it is generally a complete waste of a few hundred bucks!" According to W&G, the lard-arse didn't even look under the house for structural matters.


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Here is the kitchen after cabinet removal but before John rebuilt the far wall and Jimmy arrived to do his drywall work. There was also much plumbing rearrangement and rewiring to be done before James could start the flooring.

See that toaster on the marble top Eastlake? That was my kitchen for a while until even it had to go. There's our Chesterfield, also chased out of the living room by James. Soon everything would be evacuated out to the old metal silo. It's all still out there but the logistics zoo has died down and tranquility is returning in small dollops.
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And finally that part of a gut rehab which starts you on the road to believing that it really will happen someday - the oak floor is in, the tatty, nasty walls have a new and uniform skin. And Daisy has found the whole scene worth collapsing in even though I would continue doing dishes in the bathroom for some time to come. The now ill-placed ceiling register and the six large can lights that screamed 60s/70s from the ceiling were not long for this life either. But we were over the long hill climb of demo and devo and had reached the elusive acme.
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In the first 'before' photo, you can see that the washer and dryer took up much room and, well, just sort of turned the kitchen into a cheesy multi-task circus, as did W&G's two refrigerators. So I went with a stackable laundry set and sacrificed the right side corner of the kitchen for a 36" square closet space which would house the pair and have them facing out into the otherwise long and loitering hall (shown above). John will eventually enclose the pair with a bi-fold door but I wanted them to return to the kitchen as the next priority. I have laundry facilities again, who cares about the door!
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They got the cabinets installed next and then the new range top and built-in oven plus a sink with real running water in front of the window. Things were starting to feel downright civilized!
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And now for my supreme treat. Pictured here are John and Davey juggling two foot square panels of new tin ceiling. None of us had ever installed a tin ceiling so there was some nervousness in the planning but they did a great job of it. You are looking at Davey using a wide broom to hold the whippy panels steady while John screws them to the wooden grid above. Originally, tin ceilings were devised as a light weight way to cover over original plaster and lath finishes which had started to crack, crumble and fall down. I have always loved them.
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And here they are again, well into the home stretch. It took a lot of time and finagling to align the new light and heating outlets but it worked out smashingly, all centered in the stamped designs as hoped for. God bless John for the patience to accommodate my requests for non-standard fare, including hanging the upper cabinets on that far wall lower than standard so that I would have room to display various taller copper items and such above them. I think he is starting to even enjoy the quirky way things are falling into place.

The countertops will remain in limbo since the coppery laminate sample chip which I had carried around for years is, of course, no longer available. I might just go with solid copper sheet since I already have some on hand. We are leaning towards hammered, then chemically aged (darkened, not verdigris) and then the high spots polished back to bright. This all remains to be seen and I am in no rush right now.

And I might just leave the tin ceilings in that raw shiny finish with just the recommended coat of clear unless my experiments with a copper-colored clear finish work out. That raw finish was the most affordable of their offerings and I liked that hint of tech industrial on an otherwise classic Victorian ceiling. It should keep visitors' eyes distracted from the little piles of dog hair on the floor that Daisy and Brou are busily throwing off at the moment.

I will be back in another month. By then, I hope to have the non-fun paper part of life finally under control. Oh please wish me luck on that.
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One Year, Many Small Steps

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It is now one year of non-stop activity and stress since my best friend left us all. I had a delightful story in mind about Terry and our experiments at playing horseless cowboy cadets but I think it might have to wait a bit longer. I am a creature who needs a settled and quiet environment to bring my thoughts to paper and it has been anything but lately. Mostly towards a good end but nonetheless the current upheavals have me bouncing off the walls and finally chased into this one room plus the temporary bedroom in the cramped company of the cats, dogs and refugee belongings and paperwork teetering in high stacks.
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But a lovely and comfortable goal is nearing completion now. I have been without a kitchen for a month now but, when it is done, it will be a tidy and homey joy without rickety trailer-quality cabinets that slashed my hands from previous drywall screw repairs and appliances that only partially worked. I can't wait to show you the finished product but it will still be a while yet. I found a really enjoyable person to install oak floors over the swollen and nasty subfloors in what will be my bedroom, the hall, living room, new washer/dryer space and the kitchen. It will look great when it is done but, for now, it has been more of a tense exercise in finding homes for the furniture and boxes already crammed into a far-too-small house. My cooking facilities had dwindled to a wide-slot toaster but even it has now been displaced in the ever-tightening no-live zone. Soon though, soon!
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I suppose the most frustrating problem is that I burned out my once superior multi-tasking abilities. Apparently they are gone for good and refuse to come back. With three or four different contractors flitting in and out of the scene, I have managed to fall behind on the day-to-day household management. This, in turn, has caused more stress which is blocking my writing now. How about giving me another month to see if this immediate jumble falls into place? Right now, it is difficult for me to imagine having a settled home once again but the thought that it is near is keeping me going one day at a time. I think you will enjoy the tale of two green horns in cattle country when I do emerge from this settled and victorious. Thanks for being patient with me - it has been greatly, greatly sustaining.
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Above, the summer rains arriving last year in late July. I was now alone out at the Rat, hoping that the rains would not destroy the only road out. But the long and broad view was also comforting, reminding me that we are all at the hands of nature and fate.
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In such a broad vista, you can see the sun breaking through the clouds and traveling along foot by foot to light up near and far flats and mesas in stunning ways. When the rains wash over in pursuit of the sun patches, the smell of parched clay now moistened is a fragrance that you will never forget. That smell signals a burst of life that patiently laid waiting and soon the toads long dormant in the mud would emerge in a deafening cacophany of bobby whistles, all searching for a mate before the new pools and ponds drift away once more with the sun and wind. This brutally harsh and honest land was our most beloved home and, yes, I still miss it terribly. It is where we were both last seen truly alive. .
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Turkae Non Grata

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Like a few humans in my life lately, the turkeys have finally proven to be more of an irritation and burden in my life than any minor source of happiness. They are idiots .... period. And I now deeply resent the shin scar from trying to unload that 130 pounds of cracked corn for them. Here's why:
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I was really excited when I found a total of eleven eggs in the nesting tub. Three of the eggs disappeared over time without a trace. No big deal, there were still eight in there, all supported by great hopes on my part.

Last week, I went into the coop to add more water and cracked corn to their dishes and Rita (the darker one) raised up and spread out her wings out to hide something. It was then that I heard the faintest of chirping noises. Yes! There were hatchlings in her tub! Yes! My dream of bringing them out to the ranch was still alive!
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Rita and Hannah finally left the nest and I found two unhatched eggs and six very alive hatchlings. What joy, what affirmation of new possibilities!
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Here is one of the new turkey babes. Utterly adorable! And, yes, that is my infamously work-hardened hand holding him or her. Yep, those hands would send manicurists shrieking for cover. One day when I walked into my paramedic/rummage lady friend's shop, she said "Quick, lemme see your hands!" I obliged and she sighed in relief and said "Thanks, I needed that!"...???... ..She explained that she was feeling pretty weary about working so hard and never taking any time for her own needs and she didn't want to feel like the Lone Ranger just then. I took that as a great compliment since she was the hardest working woman I had ever met. She always paid the deepest of attention to hands, whether from when she was working for the coroner's office or to the many small town funerals she had attended. She maintained that you could learn a lot about people just from their hands. "I always look at the hands," she said, "their story is written there so plainly for me."

But I digress, as I do so often this year, so let me continue now. Those tiny turkeys were very symbolic to me; something positive to bring out to a ranch, to a dream abandoned in haste before the isolating rains came nearly a year ago.

When I went out to feed again, I found six tiny chicks out in the flight run, all deadly still upon the ground, trampled to death by idiot adult turkeys. I cannot tell you how close I came to leaving the door open and letting them all run free and out of my life for good. Or better, letting Brou have his delight into sending them high up into the trees. Instead, I decided to let the remaining hundred pounds of corn in the steel can act as an hour glass of fate; their remaining time for proving their worth sifts down by the daily cupful. If they produce more chicks before the corn runs out, they stay.
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It is the year to cast away things that have brought me sorrow and disappointment at the lowest time in my life. Losing Terry has brought that reality into painfully razor-sharp focus, brought a stinging reality to the many red flags that the ever-analytical Terry had pointed out in the past. There were those who rallied to keep my spirits up and those who rallied to knee me in the emotional groin at my most vulnerable time in life, either by their laziness to not so much as hit 'reply' with a word of sympathy or by those who did much worse and should have remained silent. I thank God for those who knew us both so well through adversity as Virgil did and remained a beloved friend to both of us and a source of life-sustaining encouragement to me. Virgil understood the deep but sometimes tumultuous bond we shared as few apparently did. On his recent stay-over here, he said "I was there through your tough times out at the Rat, there was nothing in your journal of adventures that was BS." He continued "I saw that you both had your unpleasant sides but you guys were like this ..." as he twisted two fingers together tightly. That meant a lot to me, more than you can possibly imagine. The nice thing about blogging is that you can purge disappointing people out of your blog life completely. And it makes reality that much easier to follow and putty in the wounds.

Yep, the kick-butt lady in the profile photo is back and she will be doing what has to be done without taking prisoners or granting further quarter. I am going to step away from the blog now in order to address many necessary life changes and plans in the works. I will be back on July 9th, the anniversary of the date which started me on a journey to see the best and worst of human nature.

In the interim, I will be working on this new pumpkin shell residence plus the horribly languishing legal matters and making plans for a big life change for the better. God bless all of you who have contributed your positive input throughout this, my longest year through hell to date. Remember, I will be back on July 9th, even if only for a quick bounce off the trampoline of life events ... God willing and the Creek don't rise. In the meantime, I hope you will also be out there kicking fresh butt in these widely spread trying times. If I can do it, so can you - don't forget that, don't ever give up hope.
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A Ghost Town Anomaly

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When we lived out at the ranch, nearly two hours from pavement, I got into the habit of not venturing into civilization more than twice a year. That inclination remains. Mind you, I never was one for venturing out 'just because', especially in winter. I never truly needed the company of others to satisfy some longing, some void. When I met Terry, we became a partnership of two with the same social needs. Not that we both didn't enjoy our time out with others immensely, it was just that neither of us felt driven to indulge on a regular basis. Now that I am on my own again, that lifestyle has not changed - to the consternation of some. But it is a pleasant state of contentment which is suitable and advantageous to anyone who wishes to relocate to the boonies. Neither of us needed outside contact to validate who we were or what we thought and felt. To find pleasure in your own thoughts and dreams and a joy in the immediate surroundings, no matter how simple and mundane, is a vital tool to succeed in your hinterland dreams. Who would you be without everyday conveniences so taken for granted? What do you really need? Would you be lost without your hairdryer or your convenient fast food stops? Who are you really if you lose your comfortable trappings and accessories to disaster? I'm not suggesting that you abandon your present niceties, just to think deeply, to consider the reality of who you really are if your comfortable world has been stripped away by tsunami of fate - your nice clothes, your lovely house, perhaps even your physical health and looks. Those who confront and make peace with these issues in advance will be better prepared to survive any future turmoil and be the ones with the more sound mind to lead their loved ones through adversity.
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I made a rare trip to the nearest podunk with a list of things and resources to procure. It was a fairly productive venture despite the near ghost town quality of the place. You can see my red Dakota on the right side of the thoroughfare, parked just down from the tallest building still standing in town. That building is the local bar and grill and I have taken a few visitors there when they wanted to go out for eats - a real cheeseburger plus fries and a beer for six bucks is hard to beat these days and the folks are all pleasant and friendly with plenty of amusing memorabilia on the walls to amuse yourself if you are eating alone, too. That's a real good thing lately.
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And this trip said it was a good time to investigate the statue which sits on the left side of the highway since I remembered to bring along the camera. I had seen this statue peripherally a few times before but it sat alone in a bare and neglected lot, largely hidden from view by stray pine trees. The form and style were hauntingly familiar.
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It was a full-sized bronze statue of a horse and rider, quite impressive. The ever industrious ants of the desert had found a small fissure in the base casting and built a large entry mound right beneath the horse's feet. Why was this magnificent bronze lost in a shabby lot with an ugly pro-panel building as a back drop?
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Remington - no wonder it looked so familiar! But who put it there, how long ago, what was the occasion? Surely the bar owners would know since they had been on that street corner forever. Well, sometimes your investigations end up in the lackluster back alley of revelation. The bar owner blandly noted "Yeah, the guy who owns the grocery store has lots of money, liked the statue, bought it, stuck it there on that empty lot." Just like that. My old inclination to get involved with restorations of things like houses, towns, critters and sometimes people just sort of evaporated on the spot. "I'll take the cheeseburger special then. Hold the green chili, sub the fries for onion rings, a cheap beer is fine." The dark-eyed waitress barely suppresses an eye roll of contempt at the green chili instructions but it is soothed by the extra buck for the onion ring substitution and the cheap beer. (this tale was drafted up shortly before the ulcer hit the fan)
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Oh, not ANOTHER critter?!

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Well, I never did get that 'post ahead' accomplished; probably some alert from 'the Crisis of the Moment Club' as Phlegmmy calls it, very likely another critter-related bit of melodrama. Although Terry and I had opted for an unpredictable life in the middle of nowhere, we did carefully engineer the life aspects that we had control over, like two each dogs/neutered and two each cats, likewise neutered. He would have cringed at me even temporarily adopting two old irresponsible hippies, their 100+ critters or these dozen extra dogs or the now thirty barn cats.

The good news is that while fiddling and waiting for old Rome to burn, my dental appointment finally arrived. For months, I had been nursing along a black, crowned molar that would occasionally mimic one of those bloated road kill raccoons along side of the road and then erupt like Vesuvius. I found another dentist after the first group couldn't quote me a flat rate on extracting a #31 molar. Some pain-deadener, maybe an ex-ray and an over-priced autoclavible pair of pliers, right? Simple enough, right? Or not. They finally offered "Well, it depends on your ability to pay. It could be from $100 to $300. Bring in your 2008 tax returns." Say whuh? Not only are our 2008 returns still up in the air but I have a hard time with the idea of presenting our private financial matters to a damned dentist. I don't even give anyone my social security number. You don't have to for matters not involving social security, at least from what I have heard and no one to date has protested when I write 'NON-applicable" in that line . With the rise in identity theft, avoid doing so whenever you can. Anyway, I decided that I didn't want to deal with a raging socialist medical konglomerate so I found another dentist in the phone book who seemed much more traditional and straightforward.

And it worked out great! Flat rate quoted up front and even closer to home. It probably helped that, as I swung around to drop into the chair, I noticed a very nice aircraft print on the wall despite my myopia and commented absent-mindedly "Hey, is that a P-3?" The dentist broke into a delighted chuckle and said "Well! I never would have expected any of my patients to recognize it! So ... how did you anyway?" We three (the assistant who absolutely has to be his wife) all got along famously after that. Even the receptionist said "You guys sounded like you were having WAY too much fun in there." We did. And they had wonderful senses of humor. When the assistant saw a huge prairie dog in their lot and said "Better get your gun out!" I said "Gee, just because I referred to him as a 'swabby'?" She grinned back "I hadn't thought about that but, yes, you're not going to feel a thing now, believe me." Then came time for the ex-ray. I explained my dread of this process; that someone cranks open your mouth like shoving back the lid on a trash receptacle in front of a Home Depot, shoves something barely short of a small billboard with razor edges into your mouth and then commands "Clamp down!" with a smile and disappears for God knows how long while the acute pain is causing you tears and life reviews. "Hey, anybody out there? I'm noticing the sun setting and that's probably not a good thing considering it was a 2PM appointment. Hello? Anyone?" She giggled and said "Well, that's when we both slip out for cocktails, you know."

When I said "I've always heard that old sub-hunters go into dentistry when they retire", he told me that his dad was Navy in WW2 and that he was the third generation dentist in the family. Whatever the reason, I am so glad to finally find a real dentist as I remember them. No virtual harem of female assistants either. Let that be your big clue-in to over-priced profit-centering; when you walk in and there are 20 assistants and only one pro. Or if they refer to their master money glommer as "Doctor Tim" or "Docter Who" or Doctor Bloody Whatever. If I have a problem, I wanted it fixed efficiently and at a reasonable price ... I don't want a beautiful day with Mr. Rogers and his pricey neighborhood of help. Oh, and if they have the doc's written-off copies of "Yachting Today" in the magazine racks, RUN!

This new dentist was so good that I didn't even have to slip into my 'away state of consciousness' that has had some previous dentists wide-eyed and slapping me on the cheeks to bring me back from the dead. AND they even let me have my tooth back instead of declaring "Ewww, that's bio-hazmat!" Hey, a buck (they said that was the current rate) from the tooth fairy is worth bringing it home and, frankly, if it had been in my mouth for that many decades, I resent having it called an untouchable bio-hazard. Anyway, I think I will have a long and constructive association with these new folks.
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I had been worrying as to whether the thunderstorms I had nipped through had later travelled south and caught the dogs waiting in the back yard. When I pulled up to the gate however, I found a new and welcoming face sticking out of the gate wire. "Do I know you?" I asked as I cranked the gate latches back. Apparently so for she ('she' presumably) was not restrained by the gate at all but very happy to see me and follow the truck back into the yard. Later that night, as I stepped out to check on the turkeys, she stood up and planted her front legs around my waist so I waltzed her around several times as I used to do with my beloved Rita the white dog. And I cried a little over those memories of that very special dog friend who was perhaps on loan to me from some place special and for such a short time. Eighteen years with Rita was not a long time at all.
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That was Wednesday. She is STILL here and STILL acting like she has lived here all her life. Ohhhhhhh my. But at least she's not preggers like everything else around here has been! I will have to sketch up an 'unwanted' poster to hang in the local podunk Post Office here ... soon!
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On Releasing Your Inner Redneck

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As I sat on the throne, it occurred to me that fate had dealt me an accidental but brilliant moment in redneck DAY-core. When Jimmy the Drywaller was ready to tackle one of the bedrooms here, we had to find homes for all of the sundries which had been stored there. Things ended up in any room where a speck of floor space had previously existed.
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.This Eastlake walnut piece and several stray deer antlers had all ended up in the bathroom. I had pinched these bleached-out antlers from Slim's deck up at his camp last year and brought them back to life a little with the intention of making him a chandelier. This bathroom did not come with a toilet paper holder so .... voila! The TP finally has a real classy home in the antler pile, at least until the bathroom gets a proper make-over.
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Turkey Stuff ' n More

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I want to try something new here. Rather than post a long collection of news infrequently, I am going to hopefully build up a number of shorter news updates and post-date them to pop up even when I am off chasing life's squirrels that desperately need chasing right now. I will also try to spend less time on e-mails and I am looking forward to June 12th when this borrowed TV finally goes to analog heaven. I've been putting off a lot of things that need attention now and I will reactivate the blog comments section when I feel like I have made progress in catching up. Yep, I will miss your comments and support terribly in the interim but I need to stay on track for a little while here.

Hopefully, by then, I will have also vanquished what I and the doc in the box are hoping to be simply a rather debilitating, agonizing ulcer since it would be the least expensive of maladies to cure without health coverage. Whatever it is, it has been wearing me down to the nub for the last few months.
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It became obvious early on that Brou must herd something, anything. Apparently turkeys work just fine. I could hardly complain since, as long as those birds were out there, Brou would never think about jumping a fence and disappearing (unlike Ms. Daisy or Panda). And he needed something to work off that Aussie energy plus a few portly pounds that have piled up since leaving the ranch.
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He was so intent on running non-stop circles around the coop that he built up a racer's berm in all the corners and would leap over the oblivious Panda or any one else who stood in his way. It seemed a harmless enough obsession.

I was getting tired of refilling the small water pan in the flight area; surely they couldn't be going through THAT much water every day, not by the small beak full I had seen them take occasionally. It was by accident that I eventually discovered the reason for the muddy, disappearing water when I happened to glance out there from the kitchen. It was Rita! She was insistent on taking long and extravagant baths in that small pan! What a water-wasting tart! Who would have suspected? The problem was solved when I dragged a large empty feed tub into the run and filled it to the brim with the garden hose. She now has her own personal bath tub to luxuriate in. I even thought about ordering some of those pricey bath balms for her, maybe something in a nice sage and spice direction. But poultry seasoning flavor might have been a bit alarming to her and really quite rude and self-serving on my part.
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A few weeks ago, I discovered a cache of eggs! Yes! Maybe my dream of releasing Rio Grandes out at the ranch would come true after all! At last check, there were a total of nine.

Earlier on, I took an old plastic barrel which had been previously cut down shorter and used to water horses and I placed it in the coop. Rick the Welder in Wisconsin had repaired and sent back my irreplaceable Geiger shears so I hopped the fence and cut enough tall grass for nesting material to fill the tub. And waited ... and waited. So finding these eggs was downright exciting. But who dunnit? Hannah seemed the only female curious and interested when I entered the coop.
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Not Hannah! Last week, it was Rita who I caught sitting on the nest. Mystery solved!
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Mystery NOT solved. Now I have found both Rita AND Hannah sharing the nest. They both ignored the second nest that I had arranged later. One or both of them have also managed to remove most of the tall grass after I had barb-wire-snagged my decent pants to procure it for them. Ungrateful roasters!
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Last week, while extracting nails from the well-house project debris, I very luckily caught a peripheral glimpse of an auburn butt disappearing into the coop building. ???!!!! The squawks and flap/dash of turkey bodies and growls of blood lust sent me hurtling over to the coop like a jagged comet. Brou had breached the chicken wire!!!

I became heartsick when I arrived and flung open the man door. First priority was to grab the ravaging, salivating Brou and give him the bum's rush out the door. Hannah, the white turkey, and Romeo were wide-eyed and panting for air but at least still alive at that moment. But where was poor Rita? She wasn't in the flight yard either. Then I looked over at Romeo the tom who was crammed tightly into one corner. Could it be? Yes, I could now see just the tiniest hint of Rita's feathers under his mass of torn plummage. Yes, he looked an awful wreck but he had been carefully sheltering Rita under his body and wings and taking the full brunt of Brou's assault. I got a little misty-eyed when I realized that he had nearly lost his life in order to protect her. Rita is one very lucky lady. (I figure Brigid and Christina may find extra amusement in this turkey tale, too.)
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Now, if all goes well with my new plan to post ahead for the next month or so, I will go on to the next updates and have them show up roughly twice a week. I will finish the cattle round up, too.

Aww heck, I will keep the comment options open for this one since a couple of folks might want to say something about Romeo and Rita's latest adventure.
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The Gathering

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I had already titled and loaded the photos for this next post when I received word that I had lost a special old friend to cancer. I have not suffered well the loss of precious old allies in this new millennium and my thoughts and writing reflect that troubling sorrow too well this time so please forgive any typos and disjointed thoughts from my deep distractions of the last week. I decided to leave the title as it was and add my recent loss to "The Gathering".
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May was always a bittersweet time of sudden activity out at the ranch. It was a time of fresh life bursting out in new greens and bright colors but also a time for the Colorado cowboys to wrap up their winter graze and head home. By June, the canyons and mesa tops would be empty of cattle and their rowdy, adorable caretakers and then remain deafeningly void of that delightful cowboy mischief until their eventual return with the first signs of early winter.
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So, this time last year, Terry and I headed 'up top' to meet up with Slim and a rep from a gas drilling corporation. We would take a hard right at the foot of this mesa after leaving our place and continue on some eight miles or more before arriving at Slim's place. He was either our second or third closest neighbor, depending on what roads you took. If you counted in the adjoining property lines, I suppose he was our second closest. Today would be a smooth ride up to the top; no mud bogs and the deep sands on the hill climb section were unusually agreeable to traction. The sun was hot on our arms that rested on the truck doors as breezes wisped up tiny dust rodeos around us - it was one of those many ranch days that filled us with easy and deep contentment.
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Slim's cattle dotted the fields of both our ranches and the driving was slower now due to the arrival of frisky new calves who might get a wild and exuberant hair to leap out into the road, all just for young calf grins. The anti-neighbor's ranch matron mother had warned me repeatedly that the bull calves were the dumbest and most foolhardy when it came to such things.
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While Mama Cow might be traffic wise, you don't count on her calf or the ones she might be babysitting to behave.
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This little calf had just burst from the sage and dashed across the road in front of us to join its mother. It could have easily been road kill with such a stunt and, every year, some are lost to such traffic mishaps. The gas field is probably 98% of the vehicle traffic out there and, except for the odd idiot, they do a great job of avoiding collisions with livestock. Beyond such vigilance, the pumpers (the fellas charged with the regular well maintenance) usually go the extra mile and alert the rancher to any problems they see, such as a cow bogged down in waterhole mud or caught in a cattle guard. Of course, that fine relationship depends on neither the pumper or the rancher being a jerk.
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Here is gas company rep Mike meeting with Slim. Terry and I both enjoyed dealing with Mike since he was an engineer by original trade even though he was performing the much reviled task of playing 'land agent' here. A 'land agent' is the guy who is supposed to grab your surface land into perpetuity for as little as possible. That company had bought out an outfit which had abused us shamelessly before we were able to get down there and become acquainted with price realities. Mike entered the picture later and I loved to watch him and Terry, two highly intelligent Dilberts, enjoying a fine game of cat and mouse. They each had a fine, dry sense of humor and kept the proceedings ever civil and gentlemanly.
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While Terry and Mike were using Mike's tailgate as a desk in the foreground, Slim got on to more serious cowboy matters. Here is a Colorado camera crew recording scenes from the cattle gathering. If the series ever shows up on TV, I will certainly let you know. You just won't see me in any of it. When I did an obvious duck and cover from the cameraman, Slim exclaimed "Ah-hah! I knew it! Why else would anyone live out here in the middle of nowhere ... you're in some kinda witness protection program, ain't ya?!!" Well, that got me to laughing. I guess it would seem odd to most folks that I really dislike having my picture taken and that I don't like having neighbors close enough to see them from the front porch or even in a five minute drive. Terry loved that seclusion as well and a big part of our spirits are still out there.
.After a winter of having the range to themselves, some of the horses were not keen to get back into the whole cattle work scene. Here is one of Slim's horses expressing contempt at being saddled up again after a long season off. He's heading for the secret critter escape trail up the mesa wall from Slim's fenced compound.

The gathering will continue on through that week. Slim's friends and family will help him gather in the cattle from the far reaches of the grazing lands, corralling them in for the next phase - the roundup weekend when all the new calves will be branded, counted and prepared for the big ride back up North for the summer. It will be the time when a rancher can get a first glimpse of whether he will be running in the black or the red, if his cowboy passions pay off that year.

Next post - the branding party.
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An Old Friend Gathered In

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Before pulling down the driveway for the last time as we headed off to New Mexico, I checked the mailbox one last time. I retrieved a small box and hastily put it under the seat in my Dakota. It would remain there until we could settle into the Rat trailer a month later.

When I opened the package, I beamed with a chill of delight. Two small jars stated that they were from "Bob's Kitchen", the line below further announcing that they were "handcrafted by Bob Sinclair". On his last visit, shortly before we made the big move, he said that he would send us a little something that he had made and here they were in the fruity flesh, two glass jars promising a tangy joy within. Terry laughed as I stowed them away on the new pantry shelves he had just finished building. "Saving them for the Queen's visit, are you?" He knew me so well, that boy did. As my grandmother and mother before me, there were just some things which were too precious to consign to the mundane. I had many such things that we so regrettably never got to enjoy; rather, they disappeared down the driveway of the old life with acquaintances when the moving van supposedly ran out of space. These precious jars had survived only by fate of timing and they would be the start of my comforting new 'save for best' collection.
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Since the first week in May, I had watched this borrowed television set with dread. The graphic news coverage of the Santa Barbara fires brought horrid thoughts and worries with it; I had an old friend out there, one who was battling cancer.

Being the fighter he was, he had surpassed the original due date offered by the specialists by over two years already. But it became apparent in the e-mails of the last two months that he was slowly losing the fight when the cancer started to metastasize to other regions. It had attacked his brain with that stunning 165 IQ and my heart knotted up in sorrow as his once meticulous written English started to decline in recent messages. I wanted to scream and pound the ground with outrage at this sadistic, unjust turn of fate.

I e-mailed both Bob and his wife, Anne, with my concerns but I held the dreaded suspicion that only Anne would reply this time. I waited and worried and the reports of the raging fires taunted me with every new report. My heart ached in agony for Bob and I imagined dear Anne dealing with so many losses at once. Then I got an e-mail reply from Anne last week which started off with "It is with a heavy heart that .... ". The fire had started just one road over from their house and Bob had to be evacuated to a hospice facility for his last days; he didn't even get the chance to remain at home, surrounded by his family, his border collies, his native fish collections or his garage full of vehicles he enjoyed so much. Damn this mortal realm, damn it all to Hell anyway. Yes, I have anger issues with life and fate right now - psycho-babble sound bites of the moment be damned - deeply do I live, feel, care and hurt over others. I will painfully miss genuine old allies when they depart. I care not to change that ever.
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Here are a couple of photos that Bob had shared with us over the years.
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This is Bob and Anne at a Saab Rally in New Zealand a few years ago. He was such a dedicated auto enthusiast that they popped up all over the world to join other like-minded souls.
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Here is Bob on the East coast, picking up his last two-wheeled acquisition before riding it back to California. His passion for riding and driving had him crossing the continent several times a year as much for the pleasure of each road mile as for any destination itself. He told me about driving his 360GT across the country and back and how it got sand-blasted in a freak New Mexico sand storm on the way home, playfully adding that he now called it his 'Ferrari beater'.

If you enjoy reading about amazing people, please try this link which I hope will remain active for some time to come:
Legendary Saab exec Bob Sinclair dies: AutoWeek Magazine
This is one article where even the comments are worth reading through for more insights.

On his last visit, he kept us spellbound with stories of his adventures and years in the auto trade. Despite my best badgering attempts, he would not consign his incredible memoirs to paper and I consider this as an incredible loss to us all. Now, Anne, I will tattle on Bob and I know that his devilish humor will have him chuckling at the very idea; we happened to have an unopened bottle of Courvoisier around and cracked it open that night. Terry grinned and whispered that the visit from the Queen had finally arrived as I quietly handed him the dusty bottle from the cabinet. Although he protested at first, Bob would impishly sneak back to the kitchen later for a little refill with that naughty cat-like grin. The tales got even more spell-binding and I think he slept very well that night before his planned 800 mile ride the next day.
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Last weekend, a rummage through the refrigerator had that last jar of Bob's preserves pop into view and I picked it up and cupped it in my hands like a gold chalice as I thought about the events of the last weeks, of the last few years and of the last 30 years. I reflected sadly "It's just time, isn't it, old friend?" as I reverently emptied the last of the precious contents onto some beautiful sesame seed Italian bread toasted. I had saved it for the best of best reasons. God luv ya, Bob, and thank you for remaining a keenly astute, faithful and understanding long term friend, even after Terry left us. Not all did.

But I will leave you with a bit of good news here. Despite their home sitting in the birthplace of the fires, it survived. I had to thank God profusely for sparing Anne yet another heartbreaking upset to deal with.

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And I will now pass along a so timely bit of sentiment that I just received from my old friend, Moose in Alberta, here. This is belatedly for Bob and also for my true friends that remain. God bless you all, especially in this interesting year ahead.

There comes a point in your life when you realize:
Who matters,
Who never did,
Who won't anymore ...
And who always will.

So, don't worry about people from your past; there's a reason why they didn't make it to your future. Give these flowers to everyone you don't want to lose in 2009, including me, if that's what is in your heart.
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