Big, Wonderful, Wyoming!

I have about a 30-minute drive to my office.  It gives me plenty of time to ponder.  I grew up in Idaho and believed there was no place better.  I loved the mountains and the streams.  I loved the incredible beauty that surrounded me.  I have seen the Rockies and Appalachians.  I've been to the beaches on the East Coast and the West.  I've been to Paris, Athens, Houston, San Francisco, New York, just to name a few of the big cities.  I have been to plenty of small towns from coast to coast.  But, I can honestly say there is nothing like the Eastern Wyoming prairie.  As I'm driving to work I witness the sun rising over the Eastern horizon and at the same time I see the moon setting on the Western horizon.  The sky above me is as blue as any ocean I have seen and big and open.  Spread out in every direction is the yellow prairie grass covering the rolling hills in all directions.  I drive past the Wyoming Hereford Ranch and I see the beautiful mamma Herefords with the spring calves hopping and kicking up their little feet in the open fields.  By the time I get to my office in the historic town of Cheyenne, I am refreshed and uplifted by the beauty all around me.  I am living proof that if you keep your dreams in your heart,  someday they will come true.  I'm 60 years old and my life has taken many paths. From the time I was very young, I always dreamed of having a few acres, a few animals, and a lot of freedom.  I dreamed of growing a little garden and gathering my own eggs.  My little ranch is a dream come true at last.  It was always just a dream, but one I never let go.  It was a dream I thought about often and at last,
I'm here.  Blessings do come.  Sometimes soon, sometimes late, but I am proof that they do come. Never let go of a dream.

Sure, it's cute until somebody gets hurt.

On days like today, I both love and hate my job.

First, let me say that I love electricity.  That probably sounds weird to most people, especially when you consider that I'm a girl.  But what I see that most people don't, is that electricity is like a beautiful, but wild, animal.  It is an amazing, sleak creature with slick black fur and deep green eyes.  We all use it every day.  It makes our lives better.  We are amazed by the things it can do and often take for granted it's beauty.  Just like the wild animal, if treated properly and with appropriate respect, it can amaze us and improve our lives.  But, if we mistreat it, abuse it, or take it's wild nature for granted, then it becomes that viscious beast that will kill us without a moment's hesitation.  Oh, there are some who live to tell about the attack, but I would dare say, none who want to repeat the encounter.
Yes, to me, electricity is a beautiful and viscious thing to be handled with great care.

Now, I come to days like today.  My job, essentially, is to keep the beast in check.  To know how it must be treated and cared for and make sure that those who use it do the same.  I want the people to know that this quiet killer lurking inside their walls has been properly contained so it never presents any unexpected or uninvited danger to them or their families.  On a day like today, where I find gross mishandling of the beast, it infuriates me.  Don't try to walk up and take a picture of that wild bison, they say.  It can turn in an instant and kill you.  Oh, you have a really fancy camera and you read a photography book you got at Home depot?  Well, why didn't you say so.  Sure, you are qualified to walk up to any wild animal and take it's picutre and it won't harm you.  Just make sure it knows about the book from Home Depot.

I have heard it all.  "A trained monkey can pull wire."  "It's just from here to there and slap in a plug, what's the big deal?"

"I don't understand why something so harmless needs so many critical procedures and practices to follow."
  I suppose the hundreds of man hours spent studying about electricity and then writing directions for it's safe use are just a big waste of time.
"It's my house, I can install the wiring without any training or knowledge.  Don't forget, I have that book from Home Depot to follow."
  I guess by that thinking, it's my body, I should be able to prescibe my own medications and do my own surgeries.  I'm sure there's a medical book to tell me how to do it.  I have to go to medical school to treat other patients, but I don't have to have any formal training to put a sleek, wild, black panther in every livingroom and hope it doesn't eat the owners.  I don't even have to tell them I put it there and they can just live in blissful ignorance and hope they don't do something to set it off.

Over the years I have seen so many scary things.  It's like watching people walking ignorantly on the edge of a cliff and wanting to drag them to safety, but not being able to.

Breathe Jane, just breathe.  Being passionate about it only gives you heartburn because you can only do what you can do.

But, I will keep learning about the beast.  I will watch it and do my best to protect others from it as well.  But, then as the saying goes, you can't fix stupid.  There will always be that one person who thinks it's so pretty that it has to be safe.  Just remember, we all use electricity every day, and we do it, for the most part, safely.  But, that's because there are always people like me out there watching the beast and working to keep it safely in it's cage where it's beauty can be enjoyed, and it's danger avoided.

Now, why can't this nice hotel  have a microwave in the room?

Snow drifts, cold and puppy dog tales

Oh the weather outside is frightful! You know you just sang the next line.  The weather here in Western Wyoming has been as frightful as I've ever seen for many years.  Idaho and Utah are having the same fun.  Frigid cold, snow up to my knees, howling winds, school closures, road closures, ya, pretty awesome.  Not a huge deal for me.  I lived in Eastern Idaho most of my life, and this was just par for the course.  (I know, I don't know why I live here either.)  We, my husband and I, live in a house full of furry children.  No, we don't have really hairy kids.  Well, some of them are pretty hairy, but they don't live in our house.  I am referring to our four legged children, and yes, to us, they are family.  Some Dave got stuck with because they were just part of the baggage he was willing to take on when he took on me.  You have to realize that he had never had a pet live in the house, so the idea of accepting my fur babies along with me was a huge compromise on his part.  The funny thing is, since they have lived with us, he has suddenly come to understand how it's possible to love these furry beasts, and, we have now, together, added two additional babies; another dog, and another cat.  So, back to my story of cold and snow.  On a night as cold as last night was, with the blowing and drifting snow, Buddy, the yellow lab who normally spends most of his time outside, was invited to sleep in the house.  Buddy!  He is an 80 pound toddler.  He loves to hop around with his big, pink tongue lolling out of his mouth like he's smiling.  He's always so happy.  He loves to run and he doesn't know he's 80 pounds.  He thinks he's small, like the other three pets.  He can't quite figure out, though, why they fit through the pet door and can come inside whenever they want, and he can't.  He frequently whines and jumps against the patio door, thinking that will help him get inside.  So, giant Buddy is now in the house along with Frank, the miniature Dachshund, Carl, the unusually large Siamese/Manx cross, and Rita, our little feral rescue kitten who believes herself to now be the queen of the world.  So, with everyone in the house, freezing temperatures and drifted snow outside, this is how my morning went.
     I wake up, walk in the living room to find the giant lab reclining on the couch.  He opens one eye, rolls his head back towards me and looks at me as if to say, "is it time for breakfast."  Of course, I fill his bowl with food, heat the bacon grease on the stove and pour it over his kibble to give him a little extra fat for these cold days.  He has become so accustomed to this procedure, that if I don't put the bacon grease on his kibble, he gives me a dirty look and sits, staring at the bowl, until I do.  He promptly rolls off the couch and trots into the kitchen to nibble delightedly at his meal.  About this time Carl, who was just recently curled up on "his" corner of my bed, purring softly, comes padding softly into the kitchen and runs down the stairs where we keep the cat feeder.  He sniffs at Buddy's bowl on the way past, but doesn't really care for the bacon fat as much as Buddy.  How Carl managed to get so huge, I'll never know.  He's a finicky eater and has no front claws.  He does, however, think he's a mountain lion and frequently roams the mountain behind the house.  He has brought home, several times, his kills, which frequently consist of small rabbits.  So, who knows what he really eats.  I suppose the cat kibble in the basement is just snack food to him.  I grab a package of soft doggie kibble for Frank, because he has lost several teeth and can't eat the hard food.  I step in the bedroom, where Rita, laying at the foot of our bed, yawns, stretches, and decides to go back to sleep.  I call Frank from his place burrowed under the pillows in the big arm chair and tell him it's time to go out.  As I mentioned earlier, they have a pet door in the patio door in our bedroom.  But, for some ridiculous, unknown, doggy physco reason, Frank insists on being let personally out the front door in the morning.  Any other time of day, he's fine with the pet door, but in the morning, he insists someone get up and physically open the door and usher him outside.  So, we head to the front door.  He stands anxiously waiting, wagging his little black tail, until I actually open the door and a blast of arctic air gusts in and hits him in the face.  He just looks up at me with that "oh, hell no" look and starts to turn around, at which point, I quickly grab him around his little wiener dog middle and push him out the door.  I assure him it won't take long and close the front door.  One minute later, he has completed his business, run around to the back of the house and comes flying through the pet door at mach speed and gracefully skids to a stop in his little bed, underneath his blanket.  If I ever caught this on camera it would be a you tube phenomenon.  I open the little bag of food and dump it into his bowl, which is placed right next to his bed so that he doesn't have to leave the comfort of his blanket den in order to eat.  By this time, Rita has decided to wake up and wrestle with Buddy.  Now, this activity always fascinates me.  Imagine Rita, the size a large Idaho Baker spud, and Buddy, the size of a miniature horse with teeth that could do some serious damage if they wanted to.  Rita is sitting on his head, chewing on his ears, lips, neck and wickedly scratching him with her hind feet.  He is happily flipping his head around until he grabs her and so gently puts her inside his mouth and holds her, without biting her, until she manages to wiggle out.  She is completely unaware of the danger she is in.  He could literally swallow her whole, or bite her in half with ease.  But she has no fear, and he would never dream of hurting her.  Losing interest in her game, she runs downstairs to have some kibble, and to torment Carl for awhile.  Carl is more mature, and finds her wrestling games quite beneath him.  He growls and snarls at her, which only serves, to his dismay, to make her more playful.  Buddy turns his attention to Frank.  Or should I say Frank's food.  I'm sitting on the bed by this time, applying my makeup, when all I hear is a muffled growl from underneath the pink blanket bunched up in Frank's bed.  How he can tell that Buddy is edging closer to his food bowl from inside his blanket den, I do not know, but he knows and he does not hesitate to let the bigger dog know who is the boss.  Frank might be small, but he will protect his food.  He's only afraid of unfamiliar people.  If  you have never seen Frank in my house before, it's because he hides under the bed whenever a stranger comes around.  If you visit enough times, you will eventually be rewarded with a quick glance of him as he peeks around the corner of the door at you.  If he actually comes into the same room with you, then you are golden.  It is quite a compliment.  Just don't try to eat his food.  So, I spend my morning in conversation that goes something like this.  "Buddy, don't eat Frank's food!  Frank stop growling and eat it if you are afraid someone else might.  Rita, leave Carl alone, he doesn't like you.  Carl, just go outside if she's bothering you.  Buddy, get off the couch! Rita, stop attacking my legs!  No wonder I want to go to work.  You are all a bunch of crazies!"  Pretty soon it's time to leave.  Poor Buddy must go outside and curl up in his dog house.  He is a lab.  I don't think he really cares.  He will jump in the river when it's zero degrees outside and have icicles hanging from his whiskers and he doesn't even care.  Besides, he loves to chase birds and bark at them all day long.  Can't do that in the house.  Frank is snuggled in his blanket den.  Carl is stretched out on the bed.  Rita is still chasing us around the house, darting out and attacking every chance she gets.  I know that once we are gone, she will curl up on the couch, the bed, the computer chair, which by the way, is her favorite spot, and sleep so she is well rested and ready to attack and play and annoy everyone again as soon as we get home.  There are days when I wonder what life would be like without my fur babies.  Boring I think.  They give me purpose.  They need me, and I need them.  I miss my "little" children.  I miss fixing breakfast and barking orders.  "Comb your hair, brush you teeth, make your bed, hurry up, you'll miss the bus."  I miss watching them play and laughing at their unique imaginations.  I suppose after so many years of mothering and grandmothering, my fur babies are a fair substitute to fill that empty whole that you discover when your real babies leave you and make lives of their own.  Yes kids, I have found substitutes, but I will never, ever, be able to find replacements.

Life in a small town

As I was getting ready to leave for work this morning, there was a story on the news about a new subway line that is about to open in New York City.  Everyone was so excited for this new subway line, it was decades in it's achievement.....to go 30 blocks.   Let that sink in.  I have no concept of living in a big city.  I can't imagine being excited about the ability to travel 30 blocks.  My average day includes about 200 of miles travel.  In fact, I think I drive more than 30 blocks just to get to my office.  That being said,  Wyoming is nothing but small towns.   I love driving out in the middle of nowhere and suddenly, voila! there is a little town tucked far off the highway.  So, on my drive to work, I really noticed the nuances of the little town where I live.  Green River, Wyoming's main street would appear to most, as a scene from a movie.  A long street lined with old buildings and little businesses.  There's the tiny bakery on the corner, the little lumber store that has everything, a real estate office, a title company, a retired dentist, a barber shop, and all the other little hometown shops you would expect to see in a Hallmark movie.  The sun was just rising behind the snow covered mountain and the whole street shimmered in the golden light.  Christmas decorations still lit the sidewalks.  There were twinkling stars, angels blowing their trumpets, colorful toy soldiers, and glowing candles.  A young woman with very thin legs crossed the street in a bulky, insulated coat.  You could see her breathing in the cold air as little puffs of steam followed her with each exhale of her breath.  A man walked out to the sidewalk to place the sign that he put out every day showing his store hours.  I drove up and over the bridge that crossed the frozen Green River.  The sky now exploded with orange light and clouds that looked like streaks of fire across the pale blue sky.  A garbage truck turned on a side street to pick up and dump the trash cans lining the street.  As I drove up the hill to my office, I could look down across the entire town.  Steam billowed from the roofs of the buildings and houses as furnaces worked overtime to keep them warm.  The temperature registered a whopping zero degrees inside the cab of my delightfully heated truck.  All around me I could see the snow covered mountains, the dazzling colors of the sky, the remnants of the Christmas season, the lights glowing from homes just bustling awake.  I see people I know every day and every where I go.  It's true what they say.  There is no charm equal to the charm you find in a small town.  (okay, I don't know who "they" are, maybe it's just me that said that, but you know it's true.)  I've seen my share of big cities where millions of people huddled together in tight spaces.  Where buildings soared so high in the sky that you couldn't see the sun, moon, or stars.  They have much to offer in the way of commercial services, shopping, sight seeing and the like.  But, there are no sights greater than a sky filled with stars on a dark night.  Or seeing the brilliant copper and golden glow of a sunrise over a snowy mountain.  There is no commercial service that beats the hometown friendliness of the person who so willingly bags my groceries at the one grocery store in town.  I love living in a place where people genuinely care about one another, where I can say good morning to a stranger and they don't look at me like I'm about to rob them.  I don't mind one bit traveling for hours to the big city, as long as I can live in the glory of a small town.

The Allreds, a series of unfortunate events:  Southpass

I'm not sure what it is about camping that makes it so wonderful.   It has been said that camping is where people spend lots of money to live like hobos.   I can't say we exactly live like hobos since we have running water, an indoor toilet and shower,  stove, oven, and a big, soft, squishy bed.   But,  with all the comforts of home,  we get to go miles from any civilization and breathe the fresh air,  enjoy the huge, blue skies, listen to the bubbling streams, and sit around a blazing campfire eating sticky, delicious, smores.  The dogs can run wild in a pack like their ancestors and still sleep in warm beds at night.   It's refreshing, reviving and rejuvenating.   The ills of the world could all be solved if more people sat around campfires.  

Now,  all that being said,  we are still the Allreds, and I am still Calamity Jane, and it would not be an Allred vacation without it's share of "unfortunate events".

All started out well.  We had our little trailer packed and hitched up to our little Jeep packed to the gills with a sluice box,  buckets of dirt, a trunk full of gold pans and sieves, and three dogs. Buddy settled down on the trunk of gold panning stuff and went to sleep.   All was well until. ......

Dave puts his glasses on his head, then he puts them down somewhere and loses them, so I got him a glasses leash so he could just wear them around his neck.  Well,  old habits die hard and he put them on his head while still attached to the leash.   He turned his head to say something to me and they fell off his head with the leash wrapped around his ear.  When he turned back,  the arm of his glasses was right at eye level and stabbed him deep in the corner of his right eye.   He was sure it had poked a hole in his eye and had me look.   There was no hole,  but he was now nearly blind in that eye and the white part was as red as fire.   He looked like some kind of demon.  But he is a sturdy man and he forged on.

We were trundling slowly along through Atlantic City.   Um no,  that would be Atlantic City,  Wyoming,  a quaint little town barely a step above a ghost town. As you enter town there is a sign that states,  "Welcome to Atlantic City,  population about 57".  I'm not sure if they are counting the ghosts, but it would be a good guess.   As we crossed the bridge over the creek on the main street,  Buddy suddenly decided this would be a good place to go to the bathroom and promptly jumped out the open window of the Jeep and headed for the creek. Dave came to a quick stop in the middle of the dirt road and jumped out calling after him.   He opened the back lift door and ordered Buddy to get back in.  Buster,  Frankie' s visiting friend, took advantage of the open lift door to jump out and take care of his doggie business as well. This action caused an oncoming car to stop in the middle of the road to avoid hitting the pack of loose dogs. While Dave was involved in a conversation with the other driver as to how obnoxious young Labradors are,  I decided to get out of the car and attempt to round up the pack. Frank,  who had been sitting in my lap,  took this as his opportunity to also take care of his doggie business and promptly jumped from the car and headed for the creek.  I ran across the road after him and scooped him up under one arm.   I couldn't find Buster and was calling his name when Buddy decided the heroic thing to do was to jump in the creek and swim around,  just to make sure Buster hadn't fallen in. About that time,  Buster appeared on the other side of the road with a bewildered look of,  "What, are you looking for me? ".  I quickly scooped him under my other arm and headed for the car with a now very wet and very muddy Buddy loping behind,  big pink tongue flapping from side to side.  Dogs now once again secured in the Jeep,  the oncoming car free to continue on it's way,  Dave back behind the wheel, and we continued on our way.

Being early spring, and the altitude very high, there was still a fair amount of snow around the Southpass area.   We drove to a few former camping places only to discover them inaccessible because of snow across the road. As we were driving down one road (and here I have to say,  I use the word road very loosely),  we came upon a pond that had collected on the road.   Dave stopped  the Jeep and considered for a moment.   My heart skipped a beat because I knew he would not let this pond stop him.   Sure enough,  he steered a little to the right of the water, and headed through.   I squeezed my eyes shut tight, and checked the buckle on my seat belt. I felt the Jeep hit the pond and slide down the slope of the road as we barreled through.  Heart beating hard  and fast,  I slowly opened one eye to see that we had made it to the other side of the pond, and I let out the breath I had been holding.

We slowly climbed up and down the rocky dirt road when we came to a fork.   One road went up the mountain and one went down to the creek.   Dave remembered a great camping spot down by the creek, so we took the fork down the mountain. To our dismay,  just around the first bend we saw a deep, wide, bank of snow blocking the road. Dave put the car in park and decided to walk the road to see if there was any way through it around the snow bank.  Buddy went with him, of course,  and I waited patiently in the passenger seat with Frank on my lap and Buster in the seat behind me. About the time Dave crossed the snow bank and rounded the bend and was out of sight,  the car,  which apparently was not completely in park, took off down the mountain at top speed.   I panicked!  I screamed for Dave to help me,  like I thought he was going to jump into his superman suit,  fly around the bend and stop the car with his bare hands,  and tried to get my foot, unsuccessfully on the brake pedal.  With my life passing before my eyes and visions of the Jeep and trailer flipping over and rolling down the mountain, or slamming into a tree and bursting in to flame  (I know,  I watch too much TV), a thought managed to force itself into my terror stricken brain.  "Pull the emergency brake you idiot! "  So,  just as the Jeep hit the snow bank,  I yanked the emergency brake,  the Jeep slid into the snow and turned sideways with the little trailer jack knifing coming to a rest at a perfect 90 degree angle beside the Jeep. Dave, hearing my screams, came running around the bend just in time to see the Jeep and trailer come to a halt in a hail of flying snow.  He ran to my door and tried to open it to see if I was ok.  Unfortunately,  the car was buried so deep in the snow,  the door wouldn't open,  which was just as well because I couldn't feel my legs,  or my arms,  or my face.   I had to pause and listen to make sure my heart was still beating.  Yes, there it was pounding away at an alarming speed.   I wasn't quite sure who was shaking harder,  me or Frank. Soon the feeling returned to my legs,  and with a little digging Dave managed to open my door and I got out on wobbling legs.  I took his hand and and asked if we could offer a little prayer of thanks that I wasn't hurt and the Jeep and trailer,  although stuck in the snow, were virtually undamaged. Dave was walking around the scene,  assessing the situation to determine how we were going to get out of this one.  To his horror,  he discovered that we did not have a shovel.   I  went into the trailer and reappeared with two metal camp plates.  We looked at each other,  both with the awful realization that we were going to be removing a lot of snow with two plates like prisoners digging a tunnel out of Shawshank  prison. Dave looked at me and stated,  "you know nobody is going to come down here. "  As my heart began to fall considering the task before us,  Dave turned and looked up the hill,  exclaiming,  "oh my heck,  here comes a truck! " To our delight a nice young man stepped out.   He said he was here with the scouts and hadn't intended to come down that road, but decided he would.  I told him angels came in all forms and ours just happened to be a boy scout.   I quickly loaded our little pack of dogs in the Jeep while Dave hooked his sturdy tow rope ( we did at least have that) from the back of the trailer to the boy scout's truck, and slick as a whistle he pulled truck and trailer out of the snow and up the hill to safety. I tossed my escape plates in the trailer,  thanked our Boy Scout for the rescue,  and we were off.   We took the high road this time.  

We found a very nice camp spot at the top of the hill.   I  carried rocks to make a fire pit while Dave got out his chain saw and cut up dead trees for wood.  A nice steak dinner and then we settled in around our glowing campfire.   Buddy found a treat,  a giant bone, to chew on.   It was probably something archealogically important,  but he didn't care.   The little dogs were worn out and settled in their beds under the table. We watched the sky fill with stars and then fell quickly and soundly asleep after a long day.  The rest of the trip went without incident, mostly.

 

Dave panned a little dirt for some gold,  we bought fishing licenses, but forgot fishing poles. We could have done some metal detecting,  but we forgot the metal detectors.  We took Buddy to the river to swim and Buster fell in.   I quickly  snatched him out,  but he was one shocked puppy. And, last but not least,  for my sister, WE RAN OUT OF TOILET PAPER! !!  As usual, in spite of any and all unfortunate events, it was a great camping trip and I loathe to go back to reality.

The Allreds, a series of unfortunate events, continues.

Probably the worst thing I did to my husband of not quite two years, was to not fully disclose two things before he married me.  First, I am, quite possibly, the strangest and most unconventional person he has ever known, and mind you, he has been acquainted with some real characters in his sixty years.  Second, I am what is known as a crap magnet.  If anything unusual, weird, or out of the ordinary, can possibly happen, it will happen to me and anyone associated with me.  The first summer we were together we had quite a series of unfortunate events.  The second summer was pretty uneventful, that is, if you can call four major surgeries between us in less than a year uneventful, but it did keep us out of some trouble.  In my defense, however, it isn't all my fault.  My husband is a project monger.  He must have several projects going all at once, which complicates things tremendously.  To add to the mix, we have three dogs, a cat, and 4 mature laying hens that are part of the family permanently.  This is also not something he had planned on.  When we met, I had four dogs, a cat, and five laying hens. He, not being a real animal person himself...so he thought....had some issues with my menagerie.  We reached a compromise.  The cat and one of the small dogs came to live with us.  The big dog, who was like one of my children, would live with his daughter, and the chickens would stay in Idaho for my son to care for.  Oh, and I forgot the two parakeets that also remained in Idaho.  The other two small dogs were given to loving friends to have as companions.  As time passed, the parakeets died.  I say of loneliness.  The laying hens came to Wyoming to be added to the collection that my husband had now decided was a good idea.  After convincing him how much my big dog meant to me, and after taking on the care of his father's birthday dog, Buddy, Tater, my 11 year old chocolate lab came to live with us as well.  Now, as if this was not enough, my husband, now fully convinced we lived on a farm and his farm boy instincts in full bloom, decided we needed bees and promptly ordered two hives consisting of 60,000 bees per hive.  Yes, you did the math correctly, that's 120,000 bees to be delivered in the spring.  I'm not sure what possessed him after the bee decision to believe we needed meat chickens,  but I was soon informed that there were 26 meat chicks on their way.  In the process of preparing for bees and building his own beehives and building a coop to hold 26 meat chickens for the 8 weeks until butchering, he was also trying to finish up the shop he started constructing in the fall so he would have a place to work on all these projects.  My only response was to shake my head and proclaim that he was infected with a serious case of project ADD.  Soon the meat chicks arrived, in the early morning, at the post office, in the cold.  Sadly we watched as 21 of the 26 chicks died because they had gotten too chilled in transport.  We warmed them as best we could, holding their tiny downy bodies in our hands as we held the blow dryer on them.  We dripped water down their little beaks and tried to feed them a mash of food.  Yes, I was struck with the irony that in eight weeks we planned to chop off their heads and eat them, but these were little, yellow, helpless, peeping chicks and it seemed wrong to not to try to save them.  Alas, they died.  The hatchery apologized and promptly shipped us 21 more chicks.  Meanwhile, we set the remaining 5 chicks up in their pen, with their warming lights, food and water and watched them grow hideously like some kind of science experiment for the next two weeks until the new chicks arrived.  When we combined them in the pen it was like we were dropping food in for the children of Godzilla.  The two week old chicks were humongous!  They were losing their down and getting feathers and they looked like pathetic little monsters with their sparse feathers covering patches of pink skin and croaking out an eerie sound that was somewhere between a peep and a cluck. And so, all the new little chicks except one survived.  This chick appeared dead upon arrival and was set aside while the thriving chicks were placed in the pen, warmed, and fed.  When my husband retrieved the dead chick for disposal, it moved slightly and his instinct to save it kicked in.  Out came the blow dryer, the water dropper, and his special mash of food.  He so carefully worked on it and like a miracle, it perked up, starting walking around and seemed to be thriving.  He was as thrilled as if he had just raised Lazarus.  It was amazing...until the next day when his miraculous rally failed and he died. (I should clarify, "he" being the chick, not my husband.) It seemed for a time that all was well in paradise.  A week later we added six more laying chicks.  Once again, they seemed as ants in comparison to the gargantuan freaks that already inhabited the chicken pen.  But, for now, all was well on the farm.  Of course, that couldn't last.  I suddenly realized that we had planned to go on vacation the first week of April.  I'm looking at the barnyard and attempting to formulate a plan.  First things first though.  Our vacation involved taking our new travel trailer to the Oregon coast.  Looking at our collection of vehicles, we realized that one car was too small to pull it, another truck was too big and used too much gasoline, so we decided to buy a vehicle that would be just right.  (sounds a little like the three bears).  We found a nice used Jeep Grand Cherokee for an excellent price.  The body and interior was in great shape, although in need of a serious cleaning, but it appeared to be a good deal.  Appeared, being the operative word here.  We found it in Idaho and so I left it there for a week and had it professionally detailed so that it was new car clean.  A road trip with my sister to pick it up, and I brought it back to Wyoming....just in time to find out that the engine was completely blown.  We had been duped by the seller, there's a shock, because that never happens.  I'm lucky I made it home with it.  So we debated what to do and decided that we needed a different vehicle to pull the trailer and we already had some capital invested in this one.  We decided to have a new engine put in it.  Of course, when the mechanic got in to it, he found other "small" things that could use some repair.  At this point my husband determined that we might as well rebuild it top to bottom and have a basically brand new vehicle.  Two weeks and a substantial sum of money later, we took it home.  We carefully over the next two weeks, put it through the proper new engine break in procedures, then decided that it would be a good idea to make a test run.  We planned a short overnight trip to Lava Hot Springs.  We unwinterized our little RV, packed it up, hooked up to the Jeep and headed out.  It pulled it so smoothly.  We were so tickled, until, 21 miles from our destination there was a terrible exploding sound and smoke poured from the engine.  We managed to get off the main road and found a place to park it before it was done.  The brand new engine had thrown a rod.  We called the mechanic, the engine was under warranty, they would come and tow the car and the RV back to Wyoming....in the morning.  Oh well, we did have the trailer.  There was heat, food, a bed, a toilet, a shower, and a great view.  So, we settled in for the night.  Now, there was much to discuss.  There was no way they could get a new engine in and have time to break it in before our planned vacation.  Besides, I was pretty nervous at this  point to take an untried vehicle that far away from home.  What should we do?  We could postpone the vacation except that two weeks after we were to come back, the bees were to arrive.  Then, about two weeks after that it would be chicken butchering time.  Then it would be full on spring and time to clean up the yards and plant the gardens at two homes.  With spring and summer, both of our work loads at our jobs would pick up and taking time off would be more difficult.  I had a training to attend in May.  This really was the only time we would be able to go.  What to do.  We both took on the Scarlet O'Hara mentality and decided we would think about it tomorrow...at Tara.  Ok, at Green River, but you get it. The mechanic showed up early the next morning as promised.  He said he had no trouble finding our location as he followed the giant oil trail  we left on the road where the engine exploded and spewed it's oil supply liberally like a trail of bread crumbs to our final destination. At this point I was really feeling like the ultimate crap magnet.  I finally confessed this flaw to my husband, who laughed and told me I was absurd.  Feeling frustrated, worried about how he was going to get everything done that he needed to, what we were going to do about the stupid car (yes, it's now a stupid car which I have named, "the Money Pit"), and like I might just explode, I did the logical thing...I abandoned him for the weekend and ran away to our vacation home for three days.  There I did all the carefree things that cleared my mind.  I stayed up late and watched movies with my daughter.  I visited with my grandchildren.  I took my kids to lunch.  I visited with my ailing brother.  For a time, I put all the "stuff" out of my head.  Then with my wits gathered and in their proper place, I returned to the reality of our crazy life.  Not that all was perfect in Idaho.  There was that one moment where I thought I had lost my friend's dog.  Yes, I have one friend in Green River and I was taking care of her dog and he made the trip to Idaho with me.  He came up missing Saturday morning and I was in a panic.  There was no way he could have gotten outside the fence, but he was like a ninja and he would follow you around silently so you didn't know he was there.  Maybe in his awesome ninjaness he somehow slipped out the door.  I searched and searched and finally found him shut in the guest room.  Yes, he had employed that stealthy ninja trait and followed me silently in the room and I had unknowingly shut the door behind me, trapping him in.  I was relieved to know that on top of everything else, I wasn't going to have to tell my only friend that I lost her dog.  The weekend escape profited one other thing.  I told another good friend of our vacation dilemma and he graciously offered, and in fact quite insisted, that we use his pickup to take our vacation.  I hesitated to take advantage of such an offer and said I would have to discuss it with my husband.  Now back at home, I approached him with the offer.  He considered it and all things involved and decided it was an extremely generous offer and we would take him up on it.  So, here we are, buried in a three day snow storm, planning a 10 day vacation to the Oregon coast in our travel trailer, using a borrowed vehicle.  Tomorrow, barring any more mishaps (knock on wood....everyone....please) we will take our beast of a truck that gets 6 miles per gallon and hook up our trailer, load up three dogs, and 32 chickens in various stages of growth, ask the next door neighbor to keep an eye on the four mature layers we are leaving behind, and the cat, and we will drive to Idaho.  There, we will leave the chickens and the dogs for my sweet granddaughter to care for.  Luckily my husband repaired my chicken coop there on our last trip together to Idaho.  We will park General Patton (as I refer to our truck) and hook up to our friend's pickup.  Saturday morning we will begin our latest adventure.  I would like to believe there will be no "series of unfortunate events" to report upon our return, but I suppose that would be folly.  Hopefully they will all be exciting, fun, and new and without calamity.  But, as those who know me well are aware, there is a reason they call me "Calamity Jane".  Wish us luck!

Of Dogs and Kids

We are training my father in law's puppy.  I say training with tongue in cheek because it's more like he is training me.  I suppose living with four dogs does somehow qualify me as the dog whisperer.  But the problem with that is, that my dogs are like my children and I "train" them accordingly.  Buddy, the beautiful yellow lab in training, is a different story.  Whereas my dogs live in the house, lay around on the furniture, drink out of the toilet and eat human food, Buddy will need to learn to live outside without running to the park every time he hears voices.  My regal chocolate lab, who is sporting a lot of gray around the muzzle, is the perfect companion dog.  He follows me around, toenails clicking rhythmically on the wood floors and lays at  my feet where ever I might stop.  He doesn't eat shoes, anymore, or chew on the table legs.  He is over ten years old, and my memory being short as it is, I don't remember him being quite the handful that Buddy is.  Yes, Tater did love to eat shoes and I sent quite a bit of business to the local shoe repair shop saving my granddaughters' favorite shoes.  I lost a few pair of my own.  Buddy, on the other hand, is like having a 50 lb, clumsy, three year old, eating machine around.  As I am constantly saying things like, "Buddy, don't eat the coffee table", and "Buddy, that's not your bed", and  "Buddy, what do you have in your mouth", and "Buddy, stop biting me, I'm not a chew toy."  it reminds me of a telephone conversation with my daughter.  In the middle of a sentence on the phone she suddenly shouts, "don't eat the table!"  She, however, was not addressing a rambunctious, furry beast, but instead she was talking to her three year old little boy.  Come to think of it, Noah and Buddy do have the same color hair.  Maybe that's the key, it's the white, blond hair.  After I got my chocolate lab, I acquired a yellow lab.  My husband was an avid duck and goose hunter and these were, supposedly, his hunting dogs.  We soon learned that Tater was the worker, while Rusty, the yellow lab, took the glory.  Tater would swim the cold, swift current of the river and do all the work to retrieve the downed waterfowl and just as he reached the bank, huffing and puffing from his efforts, Rusty would snatch the lifeless duck and prance proudly to where we waited and drop it at our feet.  Like we didn't know who really got the duck.  Rusty  and Tater disappeared from our backyard one day and were gone for days.  Tater came back one day.  The pads of his feet were raw and bleeding.  He had walked a very long way to come home.  Rusty never did return.  We assumed they had been stolen and Tater managed to escape.  Rusty was a serious alpha dog and would bite Tater's ears until they bled.  Hmmm, now that I think about it, maybe Tater got rid of him.  Naaaa, that dog is too gentle to do such a thing.  He backs down from the miniature daschunds and the Lhasa Apso.  He protected Frank, our black miniature daschund, when he had eye surgery as a baby.  He would scoop him into his big ol paws and dare anyone to bother him.  He would sit on the floor and let the grand babies crawl all over him.  He would let the older grandchildren ride him like a horse. This is the kind of animal we would like Buddy to be.  Right now he is like the Jekyll and Hyde of dogs.  One moment he is calm and serene and just sits on the floor watching me or sleeping.  The next he is running from room to room chewing up shoes, running off with the laundry, or eating the table legs.  In a well known line from the movie Steel Magnolias, Julie Roberts' character, Shelby says, "My dream is to sit on the porch, covered with grandchildren, saying: "No!" and "Stop that!".  I always loved that line.  I have the same dream.  However, it seems, at least for now, that I am spending my days on the porch, covered in naughty dogs and saying, "No!"  and "Stop that!"  I'm exhausted by evening and I think of my daughter and daughters' in law raising their small children and I appreciate their efforts.  Buddy is a good dog,  a huge, wild maniac puppy, but a good dog just the same.  Frank lets him jump on him and wrestle him around until he's had enough, and then in that language that only dogs speak, let's him know he's had enough and Buddy comes to a screeching halt. Someday I want to learn that language.  Until then, I'll keep spending my days with my usual barrage of, "Buddy, get out of the trash!", "Buddy, get out of that chair!"  "Buddy, bring that shoe back here!"  "Buddy, don't eat my underwear!"  "Buddy, get down!"  "Buddy, don't bite!"  etc, etc, etc.  Dave has learned to tolerate the dog hair, the slobber in his slippers, and stepping on bones and chew toys in the night.  But, he has also learned how much you can come to love those warms eyes and wagging tails that are so happy to see you when you come home,  It doesn't matter if you've been gone for five days, or if you just walked out to the mailbox and back, the tail wagging, happy bouncing is the same.  I've always believed that you can judge a person's character by watching how they treat animals.  Animals and small children hold the same place in God's heart.  They are beloved.  They are dependent on the love and affection and care of humans, both should be treated with kindness, love, and respect.  Discipline is a must with both, but love and affection trains better than harshness, both in dogs and children.  So, as Buddy sleeps for a minute, I, just like a mother with small children, will desperately try to shower, get dressed, clean the kitchen, do the laundry and any other chores that require my attention so that when the beast awakens, I will be ready to focus my attentions on him.