Parting is such sweet sorrow

Isn't this an oxymoron?  "Parting is such sweet sorrow".  I never really understood that,...until now.  I dread the day when Jay goes back to work.  The sadness starts to set in when I print his boarding pass the day before.  Our last night together I hold him closer than usual and breathe in the smell of his skin.  I try to lay awake and listen to his quiet snoring so I will remember it when his place in the bed is cold and empty.  The sorrow is very deep.  But, at the same time I realize there is such sweetness in our parting as well.  Because I know that somewhere on the other side of the world is someone who loves me dearly.  Someone who is the butter to my bread, the ice cream to my pie, and the peppermint to my hot chocolate.  He loves me just the way I am and is never embarrassed by my quirks and eccentricities.  He would literally give his life to protect me.  He would climb mountains and swim rivers just to see me smile.  When I think of him my heart warms and lightens.  As I gather his stuff off the kitchen table and store it away, it reminds me that he will be back soon.  I see his clothes hanging in the closet and I know that he will return.  And so, as his plane flies away I am blessed to know that even though his body will be in Africa, his heart will always be here with me.  Yes,  parting is indeed sweet sorrow.

Ghosts of Hunting Past

It's cold and clear.  We park the truck along the river behind a stand of trees and then we quietly walk about 200 yards down river.  The sun is still sleeping below the horizon and the sky is a deep, slate blue.  All the landscape is a silhouette of black against the sky and the churning river.  As we situate ourselves behind our natural blind of dry, yellow river grass and leafless bushes to wait for sunrise, I can hear the squeal of their wings as the golden eye ducks fly high over head.  As I stand like a statue in the cold, I can see my steamy breath escape with each quiet exhale  and I listen and watch the sky as it begins to grow lighter.  There in the quiet of the early morning my mind drifts back to hunting days long gone by.

When I was a little girl, hunting was a big part of our family.  Everyone participated.  Everyone who was old enough that is, and I was not.  But, my dad and my brothers were and so were their friends.  At the crack of dawn they would all gather in my mother's warm, glowing kitchen well before dawn, wearing their matching red flannel shirts hand sew by Mom.  The air was electric with the excitement of the day.  Mom would be at the stove cooking up a hearty breakfast of ham and eggs and toast.  She would fill the thermos with steaming hot cocoa and put it in the hunting food box.  This box was unique and always recognized as the "hunting box".  It was a wooden crate with a hinged wooden lid that Mom carefully packed with apples, and cookies, and deer heart sandwiches and....my own favorite, the giant Hershey bars with almonds.  The men would joke and laugh heartily as they discussed the upcoming deer hunt.  I would sit in my flannel pajamas in the kitchen door and listen to their stories.  Oh, how I wished I could go.  They talked of driving up hills so steep that the boys would fall out of the back of Uncle Judd's old jeep.  They would tell of one group pushing the deer through the groves of trees to where the other group would be waiting.  There were great tales of enormous bucks that would run for miles after being shot and the hours spent searching for them and then dragging them back to the truck.  My Dad said that was the difference between venison and deer.  Venison you shot by the road and plopped it in the truck and were home by noon.  Deer you had to chase for hours and then drag for three miles to get to the truck and you were lucky to be home by dark.  I remember stories of snow storms that caused them to have to abandon their kills and return the next day to try to recover them.  Stories of broken vehicles that had to be limped back home.

Soon, they would be on their way.  I would wait anxiously for their return.  Hunting was good in those days and more often than not we ate venison and they were home by noon.  They would come in the house hootin' and hollerin' and smelling of blood, cold, and dirt.  They would pull out Dad's cables and ropes and string the fresh meat up in the garage and I would watch in awe as Dad carefully removed the furry hides that he would later trade for soft, buckskin gloves.

The best part of the entire hunt was going through the hunting box to see what was left.  I knew if they brought home venison instead of deer, there would probably be most of the huge Hershey bar left over and I usually got the spoils as my consolation prize for not getting to go hunting.

As time went by and I finally got old enough to hunt, Dad grew older, the deer grew sparser, and I watched the old days of fall hunts fade into memory.  Three of my boys had the opportunity to hunt with Grandpa and I'm sure those are memories that they will cherish forever.  As I stand on the icy riverbanks and wait for the ducks to fly, I am taking visual photographs of these days and archiving them in my own memories so that some day I can share them with my own grandchildren and they too can enjoy those days long gone by.

Food, glorious food!

In the opening song from the musical "Oliver Twist" Lionel Bart pens, "Food, glorious food! Hot sausage and mustard" and then he continues to list the cullinery delights of the day.  I learned this song well when the choir class I was in during high school sang this song in the production of Oliver Twist.  To this day the words of that song always come to mind whenever I indulge in the delightful pleasure of preparing those tastebud tantalizing treasures called food.

I love food.  It adds volume to my pleasure and comfort to my pain.  It shares my sorrows when I am sad and is the frosting (pun intended) to my joys.  There's something soothing about cooking.  Assembling the parts and pieces that are the ingredients  to the end result of something that is not only pleasing to the eye but a pleasure to the palate, brings an amazing sense of accomplishment.

Growing up I took for granted how my mother seemed to do this so effortlessly every day.  Now that I am the artist in the kitchen, I appreciate what she did.  Each time I create some tasty delight I am puffed up with pride.  She just did it without  making a big deal out of it.

It's amazing how as the aromas fill a kitchen they awaken so much nostalgia that it becomes thick and tangible.  Long forgotten memories become real events that can be recreated with the sauteeing of an onion or the melting of a stick of butter.   Stirring a thick pudding made from scratch takes me back  to my mother's kitchen as the smooth aroma of vanilla and scalded milk wafts into my sinuses.  I hear the voices and feel the warmth that was our little kitchen and it's almost like being there with her again.  I can watch the fluffy white Crisco melting in the skillet and hear Mom's big metal spoon banging against the pan.  I see the chicken popping and sizzling and I see our old gray and chrome kitchen table, my brother tipped on the back legs of  his chair, licking  the dripping juices from his fingers  as he devours a crispy chicken leg.

I love food.  I love the textures and the tastes and the smells of it.  But  most of all I love the way it can reach inside the deepest parts of my memory and bring forward things I didn't know were still there.  There are conversations that happen over the preparation of food that can't happen any other place.  Things like, "the pepper is behind that big bag of Hershey's kisses."  and my secret chocolate stash is discovered.   Who doesn't think of family when they smell a turkey cooking, or anxious days anticipating the arrival of Santa Claus   when they smell cinnamon and cloves?

I sometimes feel bad for people who have decided that food is the enemy.  I wish it didn't have to be so.  I know that sometimes food can be wicked and with the indulgence comes the consequences.  I see those with the shapely legs and tiny waists and think maybe I should not have made such a friend of food, but I am what am and to deny myself the pleasures that come from the preparation, sharing, and enjoyment of food would be to deny the essence of who I am.  So, I will continue to admire those who have the self control and discipline to banish food to a place of shame and to deny themselves the pleasures that it can bring.  As for me, I will continue to embrace it and allow it to permeate every aspect of my life as one of my most treasured guilty pleasures.

The anatomy of a gallstone

It's 2:00 a.m.  Perfect!  Why do these things always happen at 2 in the morning?  Okay, in all fairness, it started yesterday morning, but I thought I had strained my back.  Oh ya, I guess I should explain.  I am smack dab in the middle of an attack of gallstones.  This would not be so unusual, except for the fact that I have been minus a gallbladder (galbadder ?  one l or two?  Oh, who cares.) since I was 20 years old.  Imagine my shock some 20 years later to discover that one can continue to grow gallstones in the tube that used to connect  the faulty organ to the infrastructure of my anatomy even after it has been removed.  Seriously!?  I know, you're asking, "then what's the point of having it removed?"  At times such as these when I am writhing (yes, I am actually writhing, like a slimy serpent) in pain, I am screaming the same question.  My sister, Sally, can unfortunately attest to this phenomenon as she suffers from the same malady.  By the end of my tale, your hearts will ache for her because she suffers (I like using that word "suffers" because emphasizing the severity of this pain somehow makes me feel better) from it far more frequently than I do.  In fact, this is probably only the 5th time in the last six years for me.  She has probably had it six times in the last six months.  You might be wondering how it's possible for me to be blogging about it if I am in so much pain.  Well, because it's better than pacing my living room, moaning like Myrtle.  (If you are not a Harry Potter fan you won't get that reference.  Just know it's not pretty.)  Please allow me to describe the particulars of this condition.  As I described earlier, it starts slowly, a nagging ache in the upper right quadrant of your back so you are confused about what it might actually be, a pulled muscle maybe?  Old age?  Then WHAM! Always in the middle of the night, it hits you like a moving truck.  This particular night I felt uncomfortable.  I tossed back and forth trying to inch away from the growing ache in my back, without success.  Finally, I try to get up and it hits.  Imagine sitting on the edge of your bed and having someone with a 10 inch knife with a serrated blade on both edges sit behind you and very, very slowly push the blade into your back.  Once it has been inserted to its full length into your flesh, then they proceed to withdraw the blade, also very, very slowly, but now they are slowly twisting it back and forth just for effect.  Once they have completely withdrawn the blade, they begin the process all over again and this continues for around 24 hours.  So, as the little invisible demon delightfully tenderizes my living tissue, I begin to try to pace the floor.  It doesn't help.  Now, I am moaning....loudly...scaring the animals.  The last time this happened, Jay was here.  He is a genius at knowing how to stop my variety of unusual pains, and he massaged my back strenuously with a vibrating massager and it decreased the length and severity of the episode by several hours.  But, Jay was not here.  However, it was 8 a.m. in Africa and so I called him.  After he managed to discover the source of my angst through the moaning and sobbing, he asked if I had any pain killers.  I had 1/2 of a hydrocodone, but I knew it wouldn't help.  Usually, it requires a very large dose of morphine to even take the edge off.  He suggested I go to the emergency room.  Ha!  I might be in pain, but I'm not insane!  That would cost a fortune, even with insurance, and besides there's no way I could drive a car in this condition and I would NEVER call someone in  the middle of the night to take me to the hospital.  (I don't want to hear it.....my kids know me too well....I do not ask for help.)  He had to come up with something better.  Yes, I know he's on the other side of the world, I don't care!  Just tell me what to do!  He really is a genius, level headed, wonderful.  He suggested I get in a really hot shower and turn the massaging shower head to the beater black and blue setting and let it beat against my back.  This sounded like a good idea.  So, that is what I did and it helped tremendously.  Obviously, because I am now able to form intelligent thoughts enough to entertain you all with this vivid description.  I will now sit in my chair, with a pillow and a heating pad set to the surface of the sun setting, at 3 a.m. and grit my teeth until it passes.  I am thrilled.  I can't wait to see what is on TV at 3 a.m.  Wish me luck.

Who said boring was bad.

One would think that the life of an older, unemployed grandmother, living by herself would be pretty quiet and relatively boring. I suppose if I were a normal older grandmother living alone, that might be the case. But, no, after last night I'm pretty much thinking that boring wouldn't be a bad thing. First of all, I'm not really alone. I may not enjoy the pleasure of a soft shoulder to fall asleep on at night, but I have a house full of life. Last night is a perfect example. Let me elaborate. First, that nice soft shoulder that I used to fall asleep on has taught me to practice a powerful sense of self preservation. This explains the elaborate security system of cameras and alarms that monitors my home at all times. Once it's armed, I don't think a well trained Navy Seal could get past it. Heck, I've been known to set it off myself by accident a time or two and I know it's there. So, I'm set for the night. I'm snuggled in bed sandwiched in with a dog on each side and a cat at my feet. I've just drifted off to sleep when my active Mom subconscience (you all know what I'm talking about) hears a beep from the alarm, the kind it makes when I first come in from the garage and it signals me that I have 10 seconds to enter the disarm code or suffer the consequences. Now I'm awake and my heart is racing way too fast for someone my age. I'm slipping my legs over the side of the bed, one hand on the shotgun I keep next to my headboard. (What? My nickname is Calamity Jane, you expected anything less?) I start to walk towards the bedroom door when I come fully awake and realize that when I'm alone in the house, I set the alarm with a no delay entry. If someone had opened the door, that mother would be screaming like a whore in church. About the time I realize there's probably not someone in the house, my phone beeps and says there's a voicemail. It didn't even ring, that's weird. It's 1:30 in the morning. The only person that might call me at 1:30 in the morning is Jay. Now my recently slowed heart rate accelerates to dangerous speed again. What could be wrong? The voicemail was not from Jay, whew! It was my security monitoring company. They were informing me that there was a non emergency signal from my security system. Really? Thanks for informing me of the obvious. Now I realize that the nice, comforting warming light I have installed in my hen house to ensure the little darlings are warm and cozy (never mind they haven't layed an egg in two weeks) has probably tripped the gfci receptacle in the garage and cut power to the security system. (Don't you love it when I use electrical speak?) Now, I'm padding about in the garage at 1:30 in the morning in my bare feet around the cars and to the gfci receptacle and I push the little reset button. Pop! As quick as I push it, the stinking light trips it again. So I pad my way back around the cars to where the cord to the light is plugged in and pull it from the receptacle. The chickens were going to have to snuggle if they wanted to be warm. (Snuggle with each other, not me and the dogs and cat.) Then I padded back around the cars and pushed the little button, and voila` it held. I pad my way back around the cars and into the house where I re-arm the now functioning security system. It's now 2:30 in the morning. I find my way back to the bedroom where three pairs of eyes gaze at me sleepily as I try to wriggle my way back into the animal sandwich. Once I'm settled, I sigh, take a deep breath and then stare helplessly at the ceiling and wait for sleep to come, without success. Now I'm wide awake. My legs are jumping and my mind is racing. I look at the clock and now it's 3:30 in the morning. Lucky for me I finally fall asleep....30 minutes before my alarm goes off. Of course this would be the one day I had to get up early. Am I a little grumpy? To say the least! I am so glad I live the quiet, boring life of an unemployed grandmother who lives "alone".

Not really a prayer, but sort of

I have lost my muse.  That’s what I call it when my faith becomes weak and I can’t find the courage to go on.  I have learned over these many years that writing is my drug of choice.  I have a gift with words, the ability to take emotions, thoughts and feelings and express them on the written page.  Lately I have lost my faith and when it left, so did my desire to write anything.  I used to write down my prayers because it seemed to focus them better then trying to form them in my head.  Seeing the words on paper gave them true substance and in giving them substance, I felt it gave them power.  I used to enjoy “socializing” with my friends on facebook.  I used to think they were interested in my escapades and little thoughts.  I used to have fun taking part in their conversations.  I used to be able to express ideas or images in such amazing detail that another person could read those words and see and feel exactly what I was seeing and feeling.  But one day, in one moment, in one tragic event, in one circumstance, my faith was destroyed.  That faith that held it all together like glue.  That faith that helped me continue to fight for what seemed like a hopeless cause.  That faith that helped me to say the right thing at the right time to help someone else who might feel their own faith slipping away.  Like an explosion, this single event blasted all my faith and my hope into a pile of ash that then blew away with the slightest of breezes.  Now, here I sit feeling empty and lost and wondering how, or even if, there is any way to regain that faith and if not, how I will fill this hole that I have inside.
So, if this were a prayer, and I’m not sure what that even means any more, but if this were a prayer, here is what I would say.

"Please hold me close until I find my way.  Please show me the path to follow to the well where I can fill this empty place inside my soul.   Please heal my heart and the hearts of those who I have injured that they may once again feel safe inside my circle."  Amen

Henry's Lake

There are some things you just have to see to really understand and appreciate.  Words can't always describe adequately all the wonders my eyes get to see.   But, since I am not an artist and words are kind of my thing, I am going to try to verbally paint a picture of the grandeur of this place that is Henry's Lake in Island Park, Idaho.

Jay's tests were done.  He was scheduled to go back to Africa in a week.  So, we hooked up the boat and the trailer and headed to the lake for a few good days before he had to leave.   As usual, we were not dissappointed.  The sky was blue with just a few high clouds.  The wind was just right to give us a perfect floating speed across the lake and the fish were biting.
     As the day came to an end, I looked around and that's when my breath was really taken away.  As we sat there, gently floating on the sapphire waves of the lake, I looked to the South and saw the majestic purple spires of Sawtelle peak soaring into the dusky sky.  To the West were the rolling foothills against the shores of the lake, the last fiery glow of the setting sun painted their ridge.  To the North were more jagged mountains that looked like they had been draped with a velvety green cloth that softly covered the peaks and filled the valleys.  These mountains gently sloped to the East and into a lush green meadow lined by bushy willows.  The sky held a few puffy clouds that were bathed in gold from the last rays of a quickly setting sun.  The air was clear and crisp and as the light faded and darkness flowed in, I could hear the mournful wail of the cranes drifting and mixing on the breeze with the lowing of grazing cattle.  Like a soft, wispy drape, night fell upon the little bowl of the lake where it nestled, surrounded by hills and mountains.  With it came the peaceful calm that is night time in the mountains.

We put the boat on the trailer and bedded it down for the night and back at the campsite we sat next to the crackling fire and listened to the coyotes howl.  No conversation was necessary.  We both just sat quietly and let the night and the fire and the breeze do the talking.  It is at times like these that I thank my Father in Heaven for one of His greatest gifts, and that is this amazingly beautiful world we live in and the opportunity that I have to enjoy it.

Just in case I didn't do justice with my words, I have included some pictures.  If anyone needs a day in Heaven, let me know and I'll take you fishing at Henry's Lake.

I LOVE IDAHO SUMMERS!!

So many times in the dead of winter, as I sit in front of a roaring fire, wrapped in my electric blanket, watching the snow fly and swirl against the frosty windows, and listen to the wind howl and pound against the roof, I ask myself, what the heck am I doing in this frigid place?  I love the sun!  I love to be warm and I despise being cold.  I should have been born a lizard so all I had to do was sit on a rock in the sun.  But, nope, I'm here in the frozen arctic of Southeast Idaho.  Then comes a day like today and I remember, "oh ya, this is why I live in Idaho."

Today I was driving into the foothills to do a little errand and I was aghast at the beauty that assaulted all my senses.  I found myself drinking everything in with my eyes as if I were a man scorched with thirst.  I could see the windmills standing like sentinels in the early morning haze along the ridge of the foothills. Today their enormous blades were completely still, a rarity here since the wind always blows.  But, today it was eerily calm.  On one side of the road waved a vast sea of amber grain, ripe and ready to be cut and on the other side laid rows of freshly mowed alfalfa.  It was green and moist, not yet dried and ready to be bailed.  The smell filled the air like perfume and I wished there was a way to capture a scent digitally like a picture, to be released on one of those terrible cold days in December.  The sky above was as blue as the ocean and went on forever.  There wasn't a cloud to be seen anywhere.  A flock of geese flew high above and their honking floated down and drifted into my ears, soon to be replaced with the gentle, rhythmic pulsing of the sprinkler heads on the huge pivot lines as they sprayed their life giving water on  the blossoming fields of potatoes.  The air was sweet and fresh and I could leave all my windows open and let it float through the house because the temperature was a perfect 68 degrees.  Ironically, when I keep my furnace at 68 degrees in the winter, I am always freezing.  But in the summer, that same 68 degrees is delightful and invigorating.  Go figure.

When I returned home from my little trip through Paradise, I found three luscious, red, ready to be picked, tomatoes hanging among the clusters of green ones on my plants and I picked them greedily.  I instantly sliced them up and gobbled them down.  They were as sweet as candy and I found myself begging the others on the vine to hurry up and ripen so I could enjoy them as well.

Today was a gorgeous testament to validate my choice to live forever in Southeast Idaho.  Winter will return, and most likely sooner than I would like.  Before long I will once again be moaning and complaining and asking myself what the heck I am doing in this frozen wasteland.  But, hopefully I can hold on to the sights and sounds I soaked into my brain today and they will get me through the cold, dark days until summer returns again.  But, if not, then thank Heaven for sky miles and my friend who lets me escape to her sunny Texas haven when the cold gets to be too much.

Beauty regimes through the "ages"

This morning I was going through my morning beauty regime and my mind began to wander the way it does, you know, "where's my blush applicatior?  There it is, the brush bristles look like horse hair, I wonder if horse hair brushes are made from the horse's tails, Paige loves horses, her birthday is next month, do I have a gift for her, I need a gift for a wedding reception next week, I need to go shopping, oh I'm out of lemons I better put them on the list, ooo, I love lemon in my diet coke, wow, I'm thirsty".  and then I go in the kitchen to get a diet coke and standing in front of the fridge I think, "what was I doing?"  But, I have wandered off the path of my subject, so let me turn this jalopy of a brain around and see if I can get back on path.

When I was in my teens, my beauty regime consisted of picking the sleep goobers out of the corners of my eyes in the morning, brushing my teeth, and combing my hair.  There, good to go.  In my early twenties I may have added a bit of mascara and the slightest tinge of blush.  In my thirties, I finally grew up and discovered eye shadow and lip stick and increased my regime from 30 seconds each day to about 15 minutes and I felt like I looked respectable.  Then, this morning, I am assembling the massive array of products necessary to achieve that somewhat acceptable look and wondering what happened.  At what point did my routine go from a little wisp here and there to the following:  1.  scrub face with industrial strength cleanser containing crushed lava rock to shock the skin cells and capillaries back to life.  2:  slather gobs of expensive rehydrating cream all over my face and watch the cells suck it in like unprimed drywall.  3:  Scan the entire surface of my face with a magnifying mirror to remove hair growth in unwanted places such as the middle of my forehead, upper lip, chin, nose and any other bizarre locations the hair has decided to grow on my face.  4:  apply cover up to the various patches of skin that can't remember that I am caucasian and should not have dark brown patches of skin on my face.  5:  Now that I have shaded the brown patches to match the rest of my face, I apply an all over cover up to change that color from something resembling a rotting corpse to something more in the range of a living, breathing person.  Now that the basic canvas has been created I can apply some color to my eyelids, a touch of pink to my cheeks, and attempt to make eyelashes that look more like the 5th day of beard stubble, appear instead to be long and wispy by applying overpriced mascara.(I don't think I have really perfected this process yet.)  That being done, I now color in the eyebrows that are barely exist due to the fact that the eyebrow hairs have forgotten where they are supposed to grow and have appeared in other, less desirable places on my face, thereby necessitating their removal in item #3 above.  At last, I have managed to apply, through the gift of modern cosmetology, a face that somewhat resembles a living human being.  Now, I carefully shellac the whole thing with a little sealing powder to assure it remains in place for at least half the day.  I smooth on a bit of lipstick for color (it will be gone in 2 minutes when I remember that half finished diet coke on the counter and I go in and finish it) and stand in front the mirror to give my stamp of approval.  Sadly, as I stand and stare at the thing I have created, all I can think is, "who is that old lady in my mirror......oh ya, I have a bunch of episodes of Hot in Cleveland on the DVR I need to watch,  where is my watch?, what time is it......................

Crappy ending to a great vacation.

Today the vacation was over, and it was a crappy ending to be sure.  Not because the fishing was bad.  Not because the weather was bad.  Not because the company was bad.  No, it all had to do with buying a new RV less than 24 hours before we left.  But, let me go back to the beginning.

For 56 days Jays has been working 12 hours a day, seven days a week.  Every night when he went to bed he would dream of spending 12 hours a day, seven days a week on the lake casting his line and reeling in the fish.  He would have visions of sitting around a quiet campfire after dark and sipping on his coke.  Finally the time has come.  He has made the long journey home, all the preparations are made for us to leave when he notices that the fiberglass shell on our RV has started to delaminate.  Now, you have to understand that we have had nothing but problems with this RV since we bought it 4 years ago and this was the last straw.  We drove straight to the dealer to discuss this issue and before we left, we had traded it in for a much better model.  But, it was after 5 and we couldn't get the paperwork done until the next day.  So, Jay and the boys left at 5 a.m. and went to Henry's with the boat, whilst Kate and I stayed behind to tie up the paperwork, move all our junk from the old RV to the new RV and then I pulled it up to Henry's.  This is where the trouble began.  First, let me say, that the dealership had the RV in their shop for 3 hours to make sure it was "customer ready".  Riiiight.  Upon arriving at the campsite and getting it all set, I attempted to fill the water tank, but instead heard water gushing from the drain valve.  The cap was missing.  When I contacted the service manager, he apologized and explained that sometimes they vibrate off, but we could get a replacement at the local hardware store....tomorrow morning.  Since we really needed water now, that was a problem.  It was against the rules, but we had no choice, so we connected our hose to the community water pipe, just until morning.  Now, Jay was filthy and hot and just wanted to take a shower.  But, now the water heater would not light.  Once again I called the service manager.  He explained that maybe (sometime during that 3 hours it was being made "customer ready") they had forgotten to close the water heater bypass valve when they dewinterized it.  Wow!  Shouldn't that have been the first thing on the "customer ready" checklist?  But, sure enough, after taking off the access panel, we discovered the bypass valve had not been moved to the summer position, so we moved it.  The pump came on and began to fill the water heater, but unfortunately, we heard water gushing outside and ran out to discover water pouring from the water heater compartment door on the outside.  I quickly shut off the pump and we opened the compartment door.  Good news, we found the cap for the fresh water tank drain.  Bad news, the plug for the water heater drain was missing and the water was just pouring out.  Upon closer inspection, Jay discovered that the water heater element had not been screwed in to the water heater, also a major part of the dewinterization, "customer ready" process that they supposedly spent 3 hours doing.  Jay screwed in the element, we turned on the pump, and the water heater began to fill.  But, the element was leaking because it needed plumber's tape on the seal.  This required a quick trip (5 miles) in to town to try to find plumbers tape.  Luckily, we did find some.  Returned to the campground, and as Jay unscrewed the water heater element to install the plumbers tape.....you guessed it......water gushed out of the hole and drenched us both.  Plumber's tape installed, water heater element screwed in, water heater filled, and at last!  Hot water!  Now, from here forward, all went as planned and the vacation was great.  Fish aplenty, weather was great, slept like babies.  Now it's time to go home.  The RV is ready.  Everything is locked down.  It's hitched up and we are headed for the dump station.  Jay dons his industrial grade rubber sewage gloves, squats down by the dump valve, turns the cap to remove it so he can attach the sewer dump hose, when.....WHOOSH!......he is slaughtered by a gushing stream of poop!  Yes, the genius's at the RV dealership, who spent 3 hours getting our RV "customer ready" had neglected to close the dump valves on the unit and Jay got sprayed by poop!  Thus, the "crappy" ending to an otherwise wonderful vacation.  To see him fly out of the way, and see me shouting 'HOLY CRAP!"  (literally) was indeed a sight to behold.  It's a good thing we had 2 hours to drive before we could get to the RV dealership, or I think they would have found our brand new RV backed right through their big, plate glass, front windows.

Jay, bless his heart, took it all on the chin.  We actually laughed about it later.  But, it was a typical Shaw Family Adventure to be sure.  Like he pointed out, at least we didn't wreck the RV this time out.  (Knock on wood.)

My Children, my friends

Time has a way of taking everything it touches and molding it like play dough.  To time, nothing is rigid or solid, but everything is soft and pliable and can be, and most often, will be changed and transformed into something different.  I spent the evening yesterday with my grandchildren.  I watched them  play in the backyard.  I heard them giggle as they tried to ride Tater like a pony.  I watched them argue over who's turn it was to swing in the hammock chair.  I followed little one year old Lincoln as he toddled around the backyard and squealed at the chickens and played with the dogs.  It was all so precious and delightful.  I caught myself slipping back in time and remembering those days long ago when my own children were just like them.  They would run through the water on the front lawn when we irrigated the grass.  They would chase each other around with BB guns.  They would see Mike Marshall drive in the yard to feed the cows and off they would go.  It was usually Kate and Steve running as fast as their little legs would carry them out to the haystack so they could "help" Mike feed the cows.  I remember Scott and his friend, Jake Bowen, cleaning the hen house for a few dollars.  Paul and Zach climbing the trees.  Brad, well, bless his heart, he was probably doing the dishes.  As I wandered down memory lane I wondered where my babies had gone.  What terrible thing had time done to take them and those wonderful, seemingly carefree days away?  Then I realized that time had done what it does best and molded things and changed them in to something new and now instead of children,  time had given me friends.  For my children have become my best friends.  After all the years of diapers, bottles, nose wiping, boo boo kissing, chauffering, cooking, cleaning, teaching and loving, time had increased my investment by a thousand fold.  Now I have friends who will come at the drop of a hat (or the key stroke of a text message) to help me do even the simplest things, like hold me up against the wall so I can hang a picture above the stairs.  They travel with me so I am not alone.  They invite to go on special lunches with their daughters and convince me that everything is more fun with Grandma along.  They cut my weeds, haul my dirt, care for my livestock so I can travel whenever I please.  They go on midnight pancake runs and bring me frozen yogurt.  Best of all, they share the next generation of future friends with me.  Someday, I hope to look at those precious little grandchildren as they become adults and appreciate how time has molded them into a new group of friends to keep me company.

Retraction

You know how the other day I said, "We'll never be too old for adventure, and we will never be beaten by Mother Nature."? Well, I think She heard me and like any good Mother, She set out to prove me wrong. When my boys were small, I used to put on my angry face and tell them, "you may grow up to be bigger than me someday, but just remember this, you will never be meaner. " Then I would pray they never tested me on it because everyone knows, the truth of the matter is, a fluffy white bunny looks like a vicious killer next to me. I learned very quickly, though, that Mother Nature does not rely on the art of intimidation. She is true to her word. And so, I offer a modification to my previous claim based on the adventure de' jour.

We checked the weather report and learned, it's unreliable. But based on the report we received, and due to the encouragement of my son, we decided on this: Jay's last day before heading out to the red sands of the North African desert, we would take the Jane Louise and test her out on the waters of the American Falls reservoir. I grew a little anxious as the winds started to increase, but driving along in the shelter of the cab of the truck, they didn't seem too bad. As we pulled in to Seagull Bay to launch, the dock master met us and talked to us about the best places to fish. I think my concern started to increase about the time he told us to watch the weather and the waves, gave us his phone number, and told us where to beach the boat and wait for the sheriff's department to rescue us. But, we launched anyway and headed out. As we were motoring into the main reservoir at high speed and the boat started to bounce sideways, I started to hyperventilate. I hung on for dear life and thought to myself, "I don't think we are supposed to fly three feet in the air and bounce across the lake from wave to wave." When my kamikaze, 32 year old, little brat, son said, "it's not that bad, let's troll awhile." I think I actually shouted, "shut up!" but no one could hear me over the crashing waves. When the rolling swells started to splash over the side of the boat, I put on my life jacket and thought, "at least they will be able to find my floating body." Now, I'm not sure what it was that made Lieutenant Dan and Forrest Gump decide maybe we should get off the lake. It could have been the fact that I had left indented finger marks in the dashboard where I was hanging on. It could have been my continual mumbling, "please God, don't let me die today." It could have been concern over whether they would be able to pull the seat cushion out of my butt cheeks if they didn't leave soon. Whatever it was, I couldn't have been happier. Once we had the boat on the trailer, safe from the icy depths of that hideous reservoir, I knew I would have to rescind my previous claims and say instead, "we will never be too old for most adventures, and we have a deep respect for Mother Nature." So, tomorrow my partner in craziness will make his trek across the North Atlantic and then the Mediterrean Sea, all from the safe confines of a large airplane, and for the next 56 days I will try to rest and prepare until we do it all over again.

Portrait of a die hard fisherman.

The sky was dark and ominous with howling winds and snow clouds threatening to burst. He looked out the window and eyed the horizon, first East and then West. "I think I see a little patch a blue sky to the East." He said. "I think it'll be okay, I'm going to hitch up the boat." With a sigh she donned her sweatshirt, thermal underwear, hooded parka, knit cap, and insulated gloves. She filled the thermos with piping hot chocolate, made two sandwiches, and popped her camera into the plastic carrier to protect it and off they went. They relentlessly trolled the boiling, dark green waters as she faithfully watched the fish finder searching desperately for the elusive trout in the depths of those cold waters. Meanwhile, he set up his poles, first one lure, then another, then another. They trolled to the East, then the West, then the North then the South. The winds blew harder, but still they trolled. The rain came down, but still they trolled. He climbed onto the front of the boat and took control with the little putting trolling motor and he crawled along the shoreline. They trolled up and down the narrow confines of the infamous "Kenny's Cove", the last place he caught a fish. At last he motored carefully up to a floating dock and tied the boat to the dock. For just a moment they enjoyed a sandwich and hot chocolate while the wind howled through the open door on the windshield. He then threw out a sinking Rapalla. He snagged up and he was forced to break it off. "Shoot" he cried, "there goes seven dollars." He reeled in that pole and threw out another. It snagged on the rocks. "There goes six dollars." he shouted above the storm. "Thirteen dollars, gone in 10 minutes." He quickly tied on another lure and cast it towards the shore. Success at last! She jumped from her seat and ran for the net to scoop up the catch of the day. But, too late, he already had the little Cutthroat in the boat. They smiled at each other like a pair of fools, and he quickly returned the slimy creature to the depths. As he threw his lure into the water again, the storms came in earnest. The wind blew harder and the clouds opened up and dumped the snow. It had been five hours and he had caught a fish. It was enough. Quickly he stowed his poles and they motored for the docks. The snow collected on the windshield and filled the skies. He could barely find the docks through the storm. He finally reached the shore and jumped to the dock. She idled in the torrent until he had the trailer in the lapping waves. With great trepidation she wiped the snow from the windshield so she could see and carefully guided the boat to safety aboard the trailer. At last it was secure and with shaking hands and shivering teeth she hopped into the truck and they headed back home. As the heater blasted them back to normal temperature, they looked at each other and laughed out loud. "We will never be too old for adventure, and we will never be beaten by Mother Nature."

And so the choice is made

A couple of months ago I had a post entitled "fork in the road". On that day I found myself standing at a fork and wondering which way to go. I should reveal something about myself. I don't care for change, and yet ironically, change is the only constant in this life. However, that doesn't alter the fact that I don't like it. I especially don't care for it when it is forced upon me through the actions of other people. But, there I stood all the same. Today, that choice has been made.

"One should rather die than be betrayed. There is no deceit in death. It delivers precisely what it has promised. Betrayal, though ... betrayal is the willful slaughter of hope.” Steven Deitz

Melancholy? Maybe a little, but true none the less. All my hope in the electrical industry and the politicians who have control has been slaughtered. I am betrayed by politics, money, egos, and the very career I worked so hard to aspire to. Betrayed by my own principles, ideals, values and sense of justice. In the end, the electrical industry belongs to the male gender and regardless of my efforts, skill level or commitment, I will always just be a girl trying to force my way in to the boys' club. Those who would employ me will weigh the cost of my credentials against the value they place on them and determine that I am not worth the cost. My sense of justice and decency and what is right is nothing more than a burden that I carry that holds no value with those who hold their power so dear. So, as I look down the road ahead and choose the direction I will take, I choose the path that puts the electrical industry far behind me. I am thankful for the knowledge I gained, for the time spent learning a trade, and the living it provided me when I needed it most. But, all good things must come to an end and so I choose to follow a different road. There is always more to learn and new things to try. I find I can no longer waste my energy being passionate about something that those is control have complete apathy towards. Another quote, not my words, but I share them because they speak my thoughts. "No one cares. Apathy is a disease and some days I long for it."

I think I will choose to infect myself with this disease, as it may be the only way to find peace with the bitter pain of loss and betrayal by those I served and the things I cared so much about.

I really don't mean to sound bitter or depressed, but I also tend to have the disease of speaking honestly, and that ailment often gets me into trouble sometimes too.

I try not to think of this as an ending, but just the beginning of a whole new road filled with new vistas and new adventures. And so, today I will abdicate my last foothold in the industry and resign my position with the Association of Electrical Inspectors, and tomorrow I will tear off the rear view mirror and drive top speed down a new road. I'm off!!

Spring planting update

The saga of the seeds continues. First to Mel, my beloved daughter in law, who finds comfort and fondness in the bleak, overcast days. May they gently rest upon your little plot of land. As for myself, I should have been a lizard, lying on a sunbaked rock somewhere in the dry desert sun. But, such is not the case. So, no, the rain, gray skies and particularly the wind, are not welcome guests at my house, but instead uninvited thieves who steal my smile and good nature. So, on to the seeds. My little jiffy garden is so far thriving nicely in front of the bathroom vent. Carl, the cat, has not yet turned it in to his litter box as there is a lid on top of them. I was ecstatic when I checked on them after only about 3 days and found they had begun to sprout. I figured it would be safe at this point to move them from the direct warmth of the bathroom vent and onto the top of the kitchen table. There they would still be relatively warm and their little peeking heads could drink in a small taste of sunlight. Thankfully the kitchen table is never used for the consumption of any meals, but is a mere decoration meant to give the impression that we are a civilized family.

Today, they had grown so big I decided it was time they were moved to larger accommodations, so I drove to the local nursery where I secured a plastic tray and planting cups that were way bigger than their current accommodations. For some strange reason I caught myself humming the theme song to "the Jeffersons". Movin' on up....to the East side. Anyway, I removed those little seedlings that were so very precocious as to have already outgrown their environment and carefully placed them in their new homes. I then filled in the open spaces with fresh, brown potting soil and dribbled just enough water over them to turn the dirt to a soft, spongy goo. I moved this little tray to the kitchen table to join the younger seedlings so they could offer encouragement and support. I know as I walked by, they raised their little heads and smiled a little plant smile.

Now, time to see if the other plants do as well, if the sun will ever shine, if the wind will ever quit blowing, and that long awaited day of hope when tender little seedlings can make the move outside will ever come.

Spring planting in Idaho

The calendar says it's spring. Look out the window, however, and you see something completely different. There is no blue sky, sunshine, or chirping birds. Just gray skies, howling wind and intermittent snow and rain. As I sat on my front porch last night, wrapped in a down blanket, my roaring propane fire dancing at my feet, I decided I would not be thwarted by Mother Nature's attempts to convince me it was not spring after all. I hopped in my car, drove to Home Depot (because they have everything) and picked up a Jiffy plant starting kit. That's right Mrs. Nature, there are many ways to skin a cat (not that I would really skin a cat.....what a morbid turn of phrase anyway) and planting seeds in little containers of dirt and keeping them inside my house until you finally give in is one of them. This morning, after having my nails beautifully manicured, I came home and retrieved my little Jiffy garden from its spot on top of the freezer in the garage and carried it in the house. I excitedly tore open the package and carefully read the instructions which informed me that I would need about 10 1/2 cups of warm water to fully hydrate the hard little disks of dirt waiting in the perfectly arranged little plastic grid. It was amazing to put in the water and watch those flat little hockey pucks drink up the water and transform into perfect little pods of rich brown dirt just waiting for me to add my seeds. Early this month I had purchased what the package claimed, was everything I would need for the perfect vegetable/salsa garden. I opened my all inclusive package and found the little paper packages of seeds. Now I could feel my heart rate increase just a little and the saliva started to flow in my mouth as I looked at the beautiful pictures of tomatoes, peppers, squash, eggplant, and herbs on those packages. My mind wandered to some place in what I hoped was the near future where I would look out my back window and see healthy green plants, drooping with fresh vegetables. I again perused the planting instructions for my little Jiffy garden and felt my breath catch in my throat as I read, "carefully pull the netting back on each pod and loosen and level the soil on top." Excuse me? I am supposed to actually touch the dirt? Wait, I just had my nails done. Can't I just pour the seeds on top and call it good? Apparently not, so I started the search for my little cloth gardening gloves. I had purchased them a couple of years ago when I believed that growing a garden in Idaho was a real possibility and now the little gloves had been resigned to someplace where all the things associated with my great ideas gone bad were. After some searching, I finally found my little gloves and slipped them on. Now I was ready to handle the little pods. Using a yellow plastic fork from the kitchen drawer I loosened that soil like a real farmer and then raked it smooth with the yellow fork. Halfway through the pack of 72 pods, I discovered something about myself. I am not a patient person. Each pod had to be handled carefully and slowly or the dirt would go flying out of the little planting pod and be useless. I took a deep breath and steeled myself against my own attention deficit issues and concentrated on farming my little garden. At last all the little pods were ready to receive their seeds. I opened the first packet of tomato seeds and looked inside. What was this? Where were the seeds? Wait, okay, if I get a magnifying glass and look really close I can actually see all 9 seeds the size of ground pepper. I read the planting instructions on the packet and it said to put 2 to 3 seeds in each pod and cover them with a little soil. I am not kidding when I say there were 9 tiny little specs of seed in this package. Who was the poor sucker that had to count and put 9 seeds in this envelope? Really, were they trying to save money, because how much could it cost to just take a pinch of seeds and drop them in the pack. What were they afraid of, that I might plant too many tomato seeds and they would get out of hand and overrun the neighborhood? I actually had to get a pair of tweezers in order to handle these precious little darlings. I carefully placed 3 seeds, one at a time, in a little pod of dirt and gently raked soil over it with my little yellow fork. After planting 3 pods, I placed the empty package at the side of the pods so I would know what they were when they didn't sprout. I breathed a deep sigh of satisfaction. Yes, I could have been a farmer. If I thought the tomato seeds were bad, I gasped out loud when I saw the onion seeds. Now I get why people wait and buy their plants already started. This seed planting thing was hard work! I determined not to get distracted from my project and I focused all my energy into carefully placing the tiny, sleeping plants into the rich soil until all the packages were empty (which isn't saying much considering the microscopic contents of each package) and each and every pod contained the potential for a living plant. Now the instructions said to replace the plastic dome on the garden. Okay, that part was easy. And then to place it in a warm place out of direct sunlight. Well, keeping it out of direct sunlight would be easy. About anyplace in the State of Idaho would qualify for that, but keeping my sleeping babies warm might be a little tougher. I looked around my house for the perfect spot and then as I saw Daisy sleeping peacefully I knew where it was. She was slumbering away on the bathroom floor in front of the heat vent. Nobody ever used that bathroom anyway, so sorry Daisy, but my precious seedlings just got you evicted from your favorite sleeping spot. I placed my little garden on the fluffy, blue bathroom rug in front of the cabinet heat vent and blew them a little kiss. Sleep well, my babies, someday soon the sun will shine and hopefully your little heads will be peaking out of the rich brown soil and be ready to drink it in, I know I am. Then I slipped off my pretty garden gloves and placed them back in their little cupboard, checked for stray dirt under my nails and took my place in my favorite recliner in front of my fireplace, a wicked grin on my face as I challenged Mother Nature to try to defeat me. We shall see.

Always wishing for time travel

Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forward. Soren Kierkegaard

Soren Kierkegaard was a Danish Philosopher. Much of his work dealt with the importance of personal choice and commitment. That being said, this quote from him holds a lot of meaning. Are not our lives a series of personal choices defined by the kind of commitment we make to those choices? I have always been fascinated by the concept of time travel, quite possibly because so many of my personal life choices have not turned out so great, in spite of the commitment I made to them. The frustrating paradox of time travel, however, is the question of, would making different choices really make things better? Or, would I find myself 30 years into an alternate future looking back and once again wishing I could do it over again. We buy a car, a washing machine, a computer or any other number of meaningless things and they come with a guarantee, and in fact for a small additional fee we can purchase an extension of that guarantee to insure that in the future that appliance will cause us no real grief. If only life could come with such guarantees. But, unfortunately the one thing that is the most important and bears the most value, our very lives, comes with no guarantees. Funny thing though, the quote says life can be understood backwards, and so, the importance of studying history. Sadly, most people forget to consult the past before trudging forward into the future. I suppose I could exhaust a lot of energy wishing I had done things differently and wondering if I could have saved myself some pain. But in the process of protecting myself, what joys and pleasures would I have also missed? As a teenager I broke my leg on the slide at girls' camp. This slide was legendary and was constructed down the side of a mountain. One particular summer we decided to slide down on pieces of wax paper to make it faster. For a few shorts moments, I felt the air rush past my face and through my hair. My heart raced and I squealed with utter delight as I flew like a rocket down that mountain. Yes, I snapped my ankle and it hurt and I limped around for awhile, but eventually the pain went away and the limp went away. But, the thrill of the ride is still lodged securely in my memory and what a thrill I would have missed if I had changed that moment when I plopped on that piece of wax paper and rocketed down the mountain. I suppose in the end I have to conclude, that there are a few simple facts that help us to make the best decisions we can based on the information we have available, and then we live with them. These facts are as follows: (1) Never lie. Except when someone's feelings are at stake, such as, "do these pants make my butt look big?" Then the art of complimentary embellishment is essential. (2) If it's not yours, don't touch it. My kids will attest to the importance of this statement. It was our family creed forever. (3) Be kind. No matter what the circumstances, there is no excuse to return unkindness with more unkindness. Besides, when someone has just treated you unkindly, smile and say something nice...it will freak them out. (4)Find joy in your work, whatever it may be. Beyond that, we can't help when other people lie to us, or steal from us, or hurt us to protect or promote themselves. Someday, someone you thought was your friend might hurt you. Someone you once loved might stop loving you, or maybe you will discover they never really did love you. But, if you don't take the risk of making a mistake, you may never find that someone does love you, that some people don't lie, and there is nothing so valuable as a true friend. However, if we choose to follow the steps mentioned above, we can always love ourselves, guaranteed!

So, fear not the future. Forge on. Don't be shackled by the fear of failure or of making a mistake. History is full of them. That's what makes an interesting read. May our lives be full of history and living, not just being alive.

Beware of cats bearing gifts

It was very early this morning when I was forced to drag myself out of bed by the call of nature. The day before was pretty unpleasant as I was suffering through a little stomach virus I got from Heaven knows where. You would think after spending the day in bed I wouldn't be tired enough to sleep all night, but sleeping didn't seem to be a problem. However, I digress. So, I stumbled out of bed, joints creaking and croaking like a little choir of frogs and crickets due to my advanced age, and stumbled blindly in the dark towards my bathroom. There on the floor I could see a dark mass of something and I hesitated. Considering the fact that I wasn't wearing my glasses or contacts, and I do not have the ability to identify anything more than 12 inches in front of my face in broad daylight without them let alone in the dark, and the fact that I do live with three animals, I knew hesitation and investigation was probably the best move under the circumstances. I carefully bent, and using the tips of my well manicured acrylic, and thereby germ resistant, fingernails I picked up the dark blob on my floor. It felt a little wet and squishy so I brought it closer to my face for a better chance to identify what it was, assuming it was the remains of some well used chew toy or stuffed animal. Imagine, if you will, the sound of a piercing scream in the dark of my empty bedroom as I looked at the wet, squishy mass between my fingernails and realized.... it was looking back at me! It was the head of a field mouse! I felt like I was in some kind of Cat Godfather movie or something. You know, mouse's head in my bed and all. I immediately dropped the little gift and danced back and forth from one foot to the other as a I shuddered and screamed. Acrylic or not, I'm not taking the chance that my nails are that germ resistant. I quickly grabbed a bottle of hand sanitizer and sanitized, rinsed, and sanitized again. Then I removed half a roll of paper towels and wadded them up so I could pick up the decapitated mouse head with the assurance that no part of it would come close to having contact with my skin, and in my night gown and slippers, at 2 a.m., wandered into the driveway to dispose of it in the outside garbage can. Then it was to the kitchen for the can of Lysol disinfecting spray so I could spray every inch of my bedroom floor. Now, all the while that this spectacle is taking place I realize that Carl, the cat, is sitting comfortably on my bed watching me and wondering why I have such a problem with his little gift. Then it comes to me, cats like to bring their owners parts of their "catch" as a gift to show their appreciation. Do you suppose being gifted with the head of the mouse is some sort of ultimate show of gratitude? Could it be Carl expects me to have it taxidermy'd and hang it on the wall? Maybe about a foot off the floor so he can stand and admire it from time to time. I'm not sure having a wall covered with taxidermy'd mouse heads would fit with my decor. I wonder how I can convince Carl that, although I appreciate the gesture, he really doesn't need to express his appreciation. I know he is happy. Really. However, I will be keeping a pair of garden gloves next to my bed and the next time I see something suspicious on the floor in the middle of the night. I will not be retrieving it until I am wearing the gloves. Just a very essential precaution.

Through the eyes of the animals

Buster the naughty beagle sometimes comes to stay at my house when his people go out of town. This is because Buster, although as adorable as a newborn chick, can be quite naughty. He doesn't intend to be naughty, he is only acting instinctively in the way of all Beagles, and that is with intense curiosity. So curious as to forget any semblance of obedience. That being said, his propensity to take unscheduled walkabouts and to eat food not intended for dog consumption has forever condemned him to being confined to the Shaw home for lovable but sometimes naughty dogs, cats, and various other varieties of beasts. However, sometimes it can be quite difficult for poor Buster. Since his last visit here we have acquired a new permanent resident. She is an adorable, fluffy little overgrown lint ball that bears a striking resemblance to an Ewok. Her name is Daisy. She and Buster had not yet had the pleasure of enjoying one another's company. Daisy tends to be a bit suspicious of any animal that appears that she has never seen before. Her response is generally to bark, incessantly, until she has decided the poor beast has learned its lesson. Whatever that might be. So, the day that Buster arrived was quite a shock, for both of them. As soon as he came in the door she started barking and ran into the bedroom and hid under the bed. Buster wasn't sure what was going on. For the rest of the day every time Buster moved she would go off on a barking tirade. Then Lewis, Katie's miniature Dachshund came to visit, because Katie has it in her head that Lewis is a child under the age of 13 and cannot be left home alone for even a short period of time. Little does she know that when she's gone all he does is sleep and roll around on the carpet. He doesn't play with matches or try to cook on an open flame and he's not likely to open the door to strangers or make prank phone calls. But, just the same, he also must come to the Shaw dog hotel rather than stay home alone. So, Lewis, who has met Buster before, just ran in the door and right up to Buster and proceeded with the sniffing and licking of two old dog friends. Daisy sat in the corner and watched this little display of wagging tails and decided that if Lewis was okay with Buster, than she must be missing something. She decided to stop barking at him for a few minutes and now instead she would follow him every where he went sniffing him. I'm not sure which irritated Buster more, the constant barking or the endless sniffing. As if dealing with Daisy was not bad enough, there were these strange, two legged, feather bearing, clucking things standing in front of the dog door blocking him from going out. He waited and stared at me and then looked at the dog door until I finally realized I was going to have to let him out and chase away the vicious chickens if he was going to have any hope of doing his business. I rode shotgun for him and shooed the feathered monstrosities off the porch so that Buster could bolt for the grass. I went about my daily chores and after quite some time realized I hadn't seen Buster for awhile. I walked to the door and glanced out the window and there was poor Buster staring longingly at the window as the chickens sat happily perched on the door mat in front of the dog door. About that time Daisy came running up the stairs, across the porch and bolted right through the dog door knocking chickens out of the way like bowling pins. I think she scored a strike. Buster saw his opening and burst through the dog door before the chickens had time to re-set themselves. I don't know if Daisy sensed Buster's sudden adoration of her for her incredible bravery, or if she just got bored with barking at him every time he moved, but from then on they seemed to accept each other and settled down on the big living room rug for the first of their daily naps.

Driving with Justin

Justin is my voice, turn by turn, GPS unit, formerly known as Edward. When I realized that Edward sounded exactly like Justin, my tax accountant, it just stuck and now he will forever be , Justin. (the gps, not the tax accountant. Well, actually he was the tax account first, but.....oh never mind.)

Today I realized I had sunk to a new depth of loneliness when I decided to power Justin up to ride around Idaho Falls with me. I had just left my manicurist's and decided to have lunch. I put in the name of my favorite sushi place and headed down the road. All was going well as Justin announced politely in his smooth British accent, "go 2 miles and turn left on Pancheri Drive."

"Why, thank you Justin." I chirped, "you are in a good mood today."

As I turned left on Pancheri, Justin politely announced that I should continue on 17th street. That's when things turned ugly. I drove under the overpass and turned right on Rollandet. Not the route Justin had planned out for me. Justin quickly announced in that cheeky British tone, "Recalculating. Turn left on 18th St." I felt the right corner of my mouth turn up in half an evil grin as I whizzed right by 18th st. I waited and pictured Justin as he carefully set his cup of tea down, pinky extended, and with polite English arrogance he announced, "Recalculating. Turn left on 19th St." Now the left side of my mouth crept up into a full on Evil grin as I blew by 19th st. and waited for Justin to make his move. Sure enough, he announced, "Recalculating. Turn left on 20th St." I could see the beads of perspiration begin to break out on his little computerized brow as he struggled to maintain his proper British demeanor. Now I burst into a full open, tooth filled, maniacal smile as I blew past 20th street and tried to contain my glee while I waited for Justin. I am sure I heard him sigh as he said, "Recalculating. Continue on Rollandet and turn left on Sunnyside." It was at this point that I shouted out with exuberance, "Yes, yes! That's right you cheeky little Brit! I'm not going to turn just because you tell me to with your deep, manly, sexy British voice. Ha, that's right! I am in the driver's seat! You might have access to all those satellites, but I have hands and they are on the wheel and I am driving baby! If you think I'm driving down 17th St. traffic just because you told me to, well you better get your circuits lubed!" Suddenly, I new I had sunk to a new, kind of weird and scary level of loneliness coping.

I arrived at my sushi place. Brian, the manager, brought me something wonderful. Because that's the relationship we have. I tell him to bring me something good, and he does. (without the British accent however.) I returned to my car and powered on Justin. I looked at his handsome LCD screen and asked, "So, Justin, where shall we go?" I swear I heard him reply with thick British sarcasm, "How should I know. You're the one with hands! So, drive!"

Grandma goes to grade school

Today was a great day! I was specially invited to go to Iona Elementary School and have lunch with my granddaughter for Valentine's Day. What a special treat. I couldn't believe how excited I was standing there in the hallway waiting for Hannah to come around the corner. What a thrill to see her beaming little face and to take her hand and walk together to the crowded lunch room. I grinned like an idiot at her first grade teacher, Mr. McKinney, and choked up as I said, "I'm her Grandma." Like he couldn't tell. We waited anxiously in line for our turn to take our sporks and sectioned tray and have it loaded with canned peaches, room temperature tater gems, chicken nuggets, a pink frosted sugar cookie and a carton of chocolate milk. She led me to a table where we chatted like old ladies and nibbled at our food. When we had decided we were done, she showed me how to properly dispose of my unfinished milk into the bucket before tossing the carton and the food left overs in to the waste cans. We put our trays on the counter for the kitchen staff to clean and sanitize them and then we headed for the playground. She told me they were having a party for Valentine's day in the afternoon, but she didn't know who was going to help. Her mom didn't like to help, she said, because they had three kids and it was too hard for her mom to come. I told her that since I don't go to work any more, maybe her mom could leave the kids with me and then she could help in her class. No disrespect to her mom, but I was pretty proud when Hannah suggested that maybe her mom could stay home and I could come and help in the class.

What fun we had on the playground. I helped her play on some of the bigger toys and soon I heard shouts of , "hey, Hannah's Grandma, can you help me?" I helped little boys and little girls all around me. Then it was time to go. As I was walking away, a little boy said, "hey, Hannah's Grandma...you're the best Grandma." I thought I was going to cry.

Few things in life bring the joy or the rewards or the sense of being important as seeing a child smile at you or tell you that you are the best. Thank you, Hannah, for letting me be a part of your day.

Suddenly Time Speeds Up

It's been especially nice having Jay home this time. We didn't plan to vacation anywhere this time around. But, as we watched the temperatures plummet, we questioned the wisdom of that decision. I just looked at the pictures of the little cottage on Berry Island in the Bahamas, where we had originally planned to go this time around, and sighed. We decided to just stay put and relax and take care of some stuff around the house. It's amazing how many trips you can make to Walmart every day. I think Jay has come to appreciate my motto, "if it's not on the list, it doesn't exist". Some people go to the movies, we like to wander the isles of Walmart.....and Sportman's Warehouse......and CAL Ranch.....and Ross's Gun shop. We have found other ways to spend our time as well. We drove to Montpelier to buy food storage from a warehouse there, only to discover that we could buy it cheaper at, yes you guessed it, Walmart. But, we did stop at Lava Hot Springs and soak our tired old bones in the steaming mineral hot pools. We have driven to Pocatello twice to practice our aim at the indoor firing range, I am a dead eye with my new .38 special, and we did have dinner with some old friends (and I do mean old...and you know who you are). The grandgirls made adorable cards for Grandpa's birthday and Paige tried to ride Tater like a horse.

It seemed like time was just rolling leisurely by and then I woke up this morning and realized that we have less than 1 week left before Jay has to leave again. His timing this rotation was perfect. I have been really down in the dumps for awhile over my job, or should I say the loss of my job. Having him here has really helped distract me from the realization that standing up for what you believe is right and losing your job sounds way better on TV than it feels in reality. Especially when you have to come to the acceptance that once you are gone, no one really cares or remembers why you took a stand, and your sacrifice was for nothing. Life goes on, nothing changes, and you must accept that you truly are expendable and the world will continue to revolve even without you at your desk. So, 5 1/2 more days before Jay is once again 8700 miles away, and suddenly time has sped up like the current of a river as it heads towards a waterfall and I am dreading the day he leaves and I am left all alone with only my own melancholy. But, just like everything else, life will go on. He will return to his routine and I will have to find a new one of my own that doesn't have anything to do with electricity. Electricity has been 3/4's of my life for so long I'm not sure I even know how to not think about it all the time. Well, it won't be too bad I guess since I am making my sister come and visit me for a week the end of February. I am going to enjoy and cherish these last few days with my sweetheart and then start marking off the next 56 days until he comes back again. I'm sure my sister, Sally, and I will be able to find just a little bit of trouble to get in to while she is here.

Electrical inspector Jane may be dead and gone, but Calamity Jane still lives on.

Remembering: Life and Loss Don’t Always Make Sense

Today is an anniversary. One I wish didn’t exist, but as my Daddy used to say, “if wishes were nickels, you’d be a millionaire.” Two years ago today I lost one of my sons. I had lost my mother several years ago and my dad about four years ago. I loved them dearly and I miss them every day, but they had lived long lives. Their bodies had betrayed them and stolen their quality of life here on this earth. They were ready to move on, and so as painful as it was to let them go, it made sense. It was the natural order of things. We live, we grow, we learn, and then we leave when we are old and gray. But Paul’s death did not make sense. He was only 26. His life had just begun. He had a beautiful wife he loved and they had only been married a little over a year. He had a sweet baby girl just six months old. He worshipped her. Paul really only began to appreciate and magnify his existence the day that she was born. She was everything to him, and now she would never know the depth of his love or the warmth of his tender embrace. His death was not a tragic accident that could not have been prevented, but was the result of a lack of concern or respect for his well being by people he trusted to take care of him. It was senseless, unnecessary and avoidable. It broke me completely. But, in the spirit of being the strong woman of pioneer stock that I was, everyday I said, “I’m okay” and I moved on. I kept my grief deep inside my heart and allowed it to surface only in the presence of a very few trusted people. I blamed myself for so long and, I would never blame God for anything that happens in this world, but believe me, we did have some long conversations about it. Two years, and on this day the wound is still large and fresh and painful, but I can at least say that sometimes, life and loss just don’t make sense. I went back to work the Monday after the funeral. I pretended that it was done and over and life had to move on, but inside my heart I was dead and in anguish and so I poured my heart out to the one place I knew it would be safe, the written page. It helped a lot. It was a year later before I had the courage to actually read what I had written and at that time I shared it with a couple of trusted friends. Now, two years later, I would like to share it with others. I know there are so many people in this world who have suffered a tragic loss like my own that just doesn’t make sense. By sharing the grief I felt at that time, I hope to say, “you are not alone and it’s okay to grieve.” So here it is. If you choose to read it, please do so with care, for this is my heart open and unprotected for all to see.

He opened the car door for her and she put her foot on the icy ground. The air was clear and cold. Little wisps of steam billowed from the mouths and noses of all the people who were milling around. The snow covered ground crunched beneath her feet as she slowly walked to her seat. She could hear the muffled voices as people conversed in hushed tones as she passed by. The canopy where she would sit seemed so far away. Her body felt heavy and slow and she struggled to move across the frozen ground. She held tightly to his arm to steady herself and draw on his strength. At last they were there and she dropped heavily into the cloth covered chair. Someone in a black overcoat was standing in front of her. He was speaking, but she wasn’t aware of what he was saying. Her husband took the blanket he offered and spread it across her legs to keep out the chill. It didn’t help. The awful cold that gripped her body was coming from inside her own skin. The terrible numbness that enveloped her started at her broken heart and spread outward to her torso and radiated down her arms and legs into her feet and hands. She felt nothing but the crushing pain inside her chest where her shattered heart somehow managed to still beat.

She stared blankly ahead as they opened the doors to the shiny black hearse parked on the narrow cemetery road. Her remaining four sons lifted the casket holding their brother and reverently carried it to the place where he would rest forever. The carved wooden box passed in front of her and they set it gently on the supports that would keep it out of that deep, dark hole until the ceremony was over. A beautiful bouquet of flowers rested on top of the box. A banner that read, father, husband, son was woven amongst the flowers. The people gathered close around. The funeral director said a few words. A prayer was offered. She watched as each one of his brothers removed the blood red rose boutonniere he wore and gently placed it on top of the box. Scott, the oldest, rested the palm of his hand on the lid as he stared across the open field. She wondered what memories flashed through his mind as he stood there under the cold sunshine of this winter day. People passed by her, offering kind words and tender touches. She hoped she was smiling at them as they spoke. The grief was crushing her to her seat. Soon, everyone was gone. Only she and his wife remained. Together they sat and stared at the lonely box. A slight, icy wind blew through the trees. She knew that soon her handsome son would be lowered deep into the ground and the frozen brown dirt would be dropped into the hole. All that would be left was a marker in this field to show that once a warm, kind, gentle soul had walked this earth. His tiny baby daughter sat quietly on her mother’s lap. Jane reached for the beautiful child and pulled her close, resting her cheek on the tiny head. For just a moment she thought she could feel his soul watching. She felt his warm smile and his tremendous love for this little girl. Suddenly the bitter heartache she had tried so hard to contain burst forth and she sobbed great tears of indescribable pain. He was gone and would never be back. All she had left of his time here on earth was this tiny little soul, a small piece of him that looked more like him every time she saw her. She raised her eyes to the heavens and asked “why”? Why did he have to go? Why wasn’t she there to help him? Why couldn’t she have saved him? What were we supposed to do now? How could this terrible pain ever go away? The Heavens were silent. She would find no comfort there. Her husband gently lifted her elbow and let her know it was time to go. She hugged her granddaughter tight, put one arm around the girl’s mother and held them together. They shared a brief smile and she relinquished all that she had left of him to his wife. She gazed for one last long moment at the wooden box sitting on the ground, then reached for her husband’s hand and let him lead her to the car. It was January 31. This was not going to be a good year. Her heart had been broken many times over her life and she had always bounced back. This time was different. She could feel the shattered pieces of her heart lying inside her aching chest and she knew she would never be able to pull them all back together again. He opened the car door for her and she slumped inside. The engine roared to life and they quietly and slowly drove down the narrow road and out the gates of the frigid cemetery. All she could do was remind herself to breathe as they drove home. She wondered if she would ever be able to sleep again without the vision of that terrible moment in the hospital when she was told that her son had passed away. She reluctantly relived that moment every time she closed her eyes. The shock, the stabbing pain in her heart, the mournful sobs that ebbed from the depths of her soul and forced their way from her lips. Would this vision ever go away? Would she ever forget, and did she want to? No, this would not be a good year.