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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Free to a Good Home

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"Free to a good home" ... if I was a truly pragmatic soul, this would be an ad for myself rather than for the offspring which have been liberally falling out of almost every animal which the previous owners had left behind. As adorable as these plentiful little creatures are, I am somewhat overwhelmed by the activities it has involved.

And I just realized that I dieseled on well past a monthiversary of my last post. I should be doing some crow bar and hammer work and some framing work before the drywall guy shows up tomorrow but I wanted to let you know that I am still breathing.
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The Panda update: As you can see, the pups have grown enough to start wandering out of their original nest behind the skid steer. The look on Panda's face tells you that she is nearly as tired of being mauled by ten adorable little furballs as I am. This is the puppy stage that I have dreaded, the one where you cannot walk beyond the yard enclosure without the likelihood of drop-kicking or running over a zealous little fuzzball ... or four ... or ten.

The bad news is that W&G have not been proactive about dealing with their dog and her pups as originally promised. The good news is that I inadvertently swiped a copy of a regional newspaper from the zoning and planning guy at the county seat and later found a phone number for a dog rescue in it. The bad news is that the lady said the pups will need to stay with their mother for another two rambunctious weeks to learn "manners and discipline" from their mother. The good news is that she will take them all thereafter. The bad news is that they now respond to the sound of any critter feeding at all with earfuls of high-pitched yipping joy and a full tumbling assault in my direction. The good news is that keeping ahead of this fuzzy pack is becoming a regular source of speed training for me despite any bad knees.
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Thankfully, it's been a fairly quiet place since I arrived. I missed last year's stand-off between police and a guy who used to, most disturbingly, ride his bicycle around the area in the nude and eventually created a pillbox within his decrepit old trailer with concrete block, leaving only Medieval arrow slots in place of the original windows. W&G said that it was quite a show and a few friends joined them with lawn chairs and popcorn for the big smack-down show that day. This story pointedly reminded me of why we so enjoyed being five miles from the nearest neighbor out at the ranch.

The only run-in I have had so far was with a chubby gangbanger on foot who was far too nosy, glancing back over his shoulder as he passed and then flashing me those moronic, belligerent gang signs when he saw me watching back. He returned later that day with a full carload of his buddies, cruising at case-the-joints speed, all rubber-necking at every house. My new friends filled me in on many useful details about such vermin and were greatly concerned about my old habit of facing filth head-on. Not to worry though, I haven't seen this gangbanger crud since.
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And so it was unusual to have the quiet recently broken by a helicopter landing in a field not far from here. Brou was beside himself with excitement ... finally being able to alert me to genuine low incoming air traffic at our new pumpkin shell of a residence.
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Great amusement indeed for both of us as one red-suited occupant of the helicopter jumped into a Sheriff Department SUV and disappeared westwards down the dirt road to our north. Then, despite a loud explosion which may or may not have had anything to do with the helicopter landing, the activity dried up and scattered away piecemeal on the dry winds of the day.

It was the winds that day which sadly reminded me of Slim, our cowboy /grazing tenant at the ranch /fireman /EMT. He had told us a story of a rescue incident in the Colorado mountains which continues to haunt me. They had to call in a helicopter rescue for a badly injured logger. As the helicopter was about to touch down, it suddenly flipped sideways and fatally crashed into the mountain. More upsettingly, as the follow-up helicopter arrived, the crew flew over and saw the first wreck just before it also flipped and crashed. No chance, no survivors. Slim may be that classic tough cowboy who doesn't like to talk much about bad things but you could tell that those people who died that day while trying to help others would be riding not too far behind him, forever. I hear the low thump of helicopter blades quite differently now.
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The winds of Spring: Yes, the winds have been impressive for the last month but I've only had one sizable tree limb fall so far and it landed in a very benign place. I did have to correct some of W's ten penny nail work with screws when the homemade doors to the shed blew open and threatened my truck parked right outside. Nails should be abolished, period.
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This small pile of tire-killing debris which I had been slowly picking up since my arrival caught me off guard. It had originally been carefully deposited in an old galvanized tub which came with me from the ranch. What a minute ... where did the tub go?
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I finally located the tub; it has been blown along a good hundred feet before it's airy journey ended abruptly against a section of wire fence. The tumbleweeds, however, will see much more of the world before stopping, especially if I toss them up in the air during a good wind after they have piled up against the fences. This sport requires thick leather gloves since many of them have very vicious barbs - the goats-head bush is truly vile and its spikes will puncture thin-walled tires (or shoes!) without hesitation.
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Here is a view of how the tumbleweeds typically pile up. The puppies have heard me and are now piling out through the gate to help me take photos ... oh joy of joys.
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More tumbleweeds, more puppies - both are omnipresent lately.
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I had often wondered where these tons of weeds end up and I just found out, thanks to 'Jimmy the drywaller'. They come to rest up where his brother bought a house east of here, often covering his house up well above the eaves. I had driven nearly out to that area in the plains one day but the dust storms were so bad that I could not see the road in front of the truck 30% of the time. I have been in white-outs and fog-outs aplenty before but never in a dusty 'brown-out' like this one and I cringed at what was happening to the air filter on the truck.
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While Jimmy was working here last week, I pointed out the above dark plume to him and asked what he thought it was. His first guess was a fire (not a good thing at all since the region is a dry, dry tinderbox at the moment). Then he noticed that it was moving along quickly. "Wow, THAT is the biggest dust devil I have ever seen!" Unfortunately, I only caught a photo of this devil in its waning stages. It had been so dark and distinct that you would have expected to look up and find it connected to a black tornado cloud but it climbed upwards to connect to nothing but the blue sky above.

In this photo, you can also catch a glimpse of the mountains living far to the East of here. There have been days in this windy season when everything beyond those buildings has been obliterated by a dense curtain of brown dust. Thankfully and forever what reason, this small pocket on the plains is sheltered from the worst of the wind's bluster ... so far at least.
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And here's John, eighty years under his belt already and still kicking butt. He still has the fortitude and pluck which secured him a spot on the US ISDT team years ago on a BSA. God bless him, he remained a friend to both of us and he stopped over on his way West recently. I felt so bad that I still don't have a guest room set up but he was reassuringly gallant about sleeping on the too short Chesterfield even though he takes more of a set overnight these days than he used to.

He was the first contact here to want to sit down and encourage me with positive dialog to get me up out of my slump and consider the future again. I so hate to ask for unpaid help but he also insisted on helping out where he could. He helped me move the 100 plus pound dressers and unwieldy building supplies that have been forever in the way of my next projects and then went out to start up Terry's truck and check it over. He would have kept going and going and going had I not felt so awkward about his very welcomed thoughtfulness. While I no longer miss human company other than Terry's now, I have never felt so all alone in my life and his arrival was a true blessing. John has always been a deep and independent thinker, always observant and sensitive to the big picture and the priorities of the here and now and Terry and I always respected his thoughts and opinions completely. God bless him indeed for showing up when he did in my darkest hours.
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I've got lots of photos and updates that have been languishing amidst my doldrums and sorrows but I will try to post again in the next week if all goes well. I have been beset by a couple of physical maladies which even I can't ignore too much longer but watch for my next post soon ... God willing and the Creek don't rise. And, very genuinely meant, thanks for sticking by me.
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And a P.S.: Alltel absolutely sucks ... more details and rant likely to follow (it's not just their TV commercials that irritate beyond belief).
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Treading water in a clawfoot tub

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The single highlight of this week was the return of the prodigal tub. With any luck, it will assume its permanent place in this house, likely the last place I will do a house make-over since I now consider this house and locale quite temporary. Back in the 70s when house restorations became popular, someone wrote "There is really only one house restoration in all of us." Some five or six house projects later plus those done for a living, I am finally running out of heart and steam.

I had looked and looked for a four foot long cast iron tub for ten years before finding this one. The four footer is ideal to serve as a period shower base in a small bathroom. There were ample supplies of the five foot long tubs but not the more coveted four and six foot lengths, at least none that hadn't been buried vertically and converted into a yard shrine housing a Madonna years ago. I once knew a fellow who had photographed each kitschy tub shrine he found in New England and he had contrived a hilarious although sacrilegious title for each one in his collection.

This one was remarkably well preserved when I found it; usually abrasive cleaners and unchecked faucet dips ruined the porcelain over time. I had found this one at a remote rural old hippie yard sale. It even had the hard-to-find brass drain plumbing on it and, for $75, the guy even helped me load it into my tiny pickup. This was not a find that I could stash away in the barn/work shop by myself so, after giving me 'the look', Terry helped me unload it. I spent considerable time slowly rasping away with a metal file during the following weeks to wear down many casting glitches on the tub and legs. The big moment of satisfaction was when I was able to apply primer to all the parts to stop further rusting.
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Long story but a couple of acquaintances showed up this week with the tub and I cannot tell you how excited I was to see it again! Yes, like the Katlady, I have a passion for iron castings, truly, literally a heavy burden if you ever have to move. The return of the tub brought nothing more than later having to pry out a chunk of white porcelain from my forearm after a warning of a leg falling off went unheeded. No back miseries ... delightful!

I am kicking myself for not taking pictures of the incredible DC motor driven lift platform that Brian had placed in his standard pick-up rear receiver for the event. He even had me stand on it for a demonstration and gave me a lift up and down. After having a 130 pound can of turkey feed drop off my tailgate, effectively taking the skin off my lower shin and ankle upon landing, I was all ears about this incredible device. He said that it was rated for lifting up to 500 pounds to tailgate level and that it was able to heft a refrigerator with no problem at all. Better still, he had found it on sale from Harbor Freight for $199. Of course, we had to discuss all the mods and tweaks to cater to specific needs. As of that visit, the Harbor Freight catalogs will definitely find their way back to the toilet tank library.
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Catching up on old news, here is Wayne demonstrating the right stance for catching chickens, ducks and pigeons. It's not as easy or pleasant as you might imagine.
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And here is Gayle tackling a reluctant turkey. They were ALL reluctant in reality. Her grimace reflects the joy of being whipped in the eyes by sturdy feathers. Not being involved, of course, I found the whole process hilarious. Then Gayle let out a whoop of despair when one turkey hen escaped. When I said "Oh my, now how are you going to catch and cage her?" she replied "Uhm, actually that's one of the ones you own now" as we stood there and watched this hen take off like a road runner to parts unknown. When I suggested that the turkey-obsessed Brou be let loose to tire her out, Gayle noted that the wings on these birds had not been clipped and that we might be staring up at a turkey high in the treetops if he startled her. Really, what was I thinking in adopting inedible old turkeys in the first place?

After an hour of sprinting after a turkey adept at ducking and dodging, we herded her back towards the trailer and Wayne was able to corner the bugger and toss her back into the pen.
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Here is Wayne stuffing the first of the highly resistant turkeys into the cage on their trailer. You have to give W&G an 'A' for tenacity and eventually all their flying stock was captured and loaded up.
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You met Hannah already, now here is the rest of my turkey homies. This is Romeo (hey, I did NOT name these birds, okay?) . He is the Tom (male) of the pair of NM natives. This time Gayle reiterated their species name loudly and clearly as if addressing the profoundly deaf and daft - it was fitting and much appreciated. "THEY ... ARE ... RIO GRANDES!" And so this time, the info stuck.
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Here is a close-up of Romeo's plummage. A photo simply cannot do justice to the effect of the bright New Mexico sun reflecting off his feathers when he struts his stuff. I rather like that boy since he never fails to answer my "Booga-booga-booga!" when I walk out to the pen. And if the sun is out, it's likely that he will puff himself out as shown above and drum me an almost ELF ranged "shtooommmpphhhh!". A turkey hunter would know and love that sound well. He's a pretty cocky, cool bird.
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And here is the third bird. Again, don't blame me for the names ... meet Rita! She is the Rio Grande hen of the pair. She is the one who had us playing turkey round up when she escaped and the only one who ducks into the coop when I arrive with food. Rita definitely has a stubborn, defiant mind of her own.

According to W&G, I now need to find some good nesting straw and they will start laying eggs. While I really enjoyed the duck and chicken eggs that W&G shared with me before the bird exodus, I am tempted to raise enough native turkey hatchlings to release them out at the ranch some day. It's either that or (as I discussed with Harmonica Joe) raise and train turkeys as bird of prey substitutes just to utterly annoy elitist falconers. After being the only volunteer to ride in the back of a station wagon with the hooded falcon in Utah once, I became thoroughly enchanted with falconry. Being the frugal and pragmatic sort though, I think I might be able to replicate the same hunting function with a vaguely domesticated turkey, thus avoiding all that long apprenticeship and pricy licencsing ... whaddya think? I know, I know; they look more like a buzzard than a hawk but they sure can kick butt when motivated ... just ask Gayle. And it appeals to my growing eccentricity to ride the ranch someday on a Percheron, in a suit of armor with a faithful turkey of prey perched upon my gauntlet. If you are going to offend or annoy everyone eventually anyway, you might as well do it with an outrageous flare.
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The puppy update: Panda is definitely a deca-mom. You may not be able to account for all of them from this photo but there are ten little pups all piled on here. Panda has been doing an excellant job of taking care of them. That's a good thing since W&G have silently dropped below the radar since I sent them an e-mail announcing their arrival. That e-mail also contained a compilation of your many congrats and well wishes on Wayne's surgery and I am sure that they were very appreciated.
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And I discovered today that Panda is a shameless photo ham. Upon hearing her name, she presented me with new poses for every camera click until the batteries wore down.
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And to wrap up this photo tour, here is a snap of the wall that I stare at a lot when trying to write a new post. The student lamp, the wall clock and the pheasant all contain pleasant memories. The pheasant, in particular, has its own very special place in the memories that Terry and I shared. We called him Phred and no one can dampen or take the joy of that particular memory from me ... thank God, truly.
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