Our good friends, Kathy and Kurtis finally relented to the pleadings of their 7 year old daughter, Terri and decided to give her a puppy for Christmas.
Kathy wanted something tiny and cuddly like a Chihuahua or teacup poodle. Curtis wanted something manly like a St. Bernard. For weeks prior to Christmas they scoured every animal shelter within an hours dive of their home, and also responded to newspaper and on-line ads. After looking at dozens and dozens of puppy they came up empty handed.
A few days before Christmas Curtis came home from work and proudly announced that he found the perfect puppy and that he had made arrangements with the breeder to pick it up on Christmas morning. He said it was a "pretty small guy" and that "the owner said it was the smallest in the litter."
Now Kathy's folks live in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma and they had made arrangements some months earlier to fly out for a brief visit with them. They were scheduled to arrive on the 22nd and leave on the afternoon of the 24th. Everything was planned down to the minute.
What wasn't in their plans however was being snowed in at the Will Rogers World Airport in Oklahoma City on the 24th. It looked like they would not make it home in time for Christmas.
In a panic Curtis called me the morning of the 24th and asked if I could pick up their new puppy and care for it until they were able to catch a flight home. A tiny puppy did not fit into my Christmas plans, but what else could I do but agree to "puppy-sit" until they got home. After all, what are friends for ?
We were having guests for dinner that night, but since I had prepared most of the meal ahead of time, and the table was already set I would have plenty of time to dash across town and pick up the puppy. I didn't see how it could be much of a problem.
The "puppy" turned out to be a 4 month old Great Dane mix. It was huge! I mean really huge. It took 2 of us just to pile him into the passenger seat of my truck. It also took 2 of us to pile me into the drivers side because the puppy was all legs, tail and tongue and he used all 3 non-stop and with great exuberance. Granted, he was cute, but he was also a serious driving hazard. He blocked the passenger side window and mirror, dislodged the rear view mirror, fogged up the windows and slobbered over everything.
I managed to get him within about a mile of my home when suddenly he began to frantically pant and whine. I thought he had to go "potty" so I quickly pulled off to the side of the road, snapped the leash onto his collar and tried to pull him out the passenger side door.
Well, as it turns out he didn't have to go "potty" he had to throw up! He apparently couldn't wait another 5 seconds until I could pull him out of the truck, because the contents of his breakfast and quite possibly his dinner from the night before were violently hurled onto me.
I continued to try and coax him out of the truck, but it was obvious that he had done what he needed to do and as such refused to leave the warmth of the vehicle. I was upset, but I live on a ranch and having a very large dog throw up on me wasn't the worst thing that had happened to me, but it was a close second.
Once I got him to my house it took a good 15 minutes for me to get him out of the truck. He tossed his head in the air and planted his feet firmly on the seat. I wondered if he was afraid of heights so I tried to lift him out. Actually it was more of a lift/shove/pull motion. That maneuver finally did the trick, but not without casualty. Mine. Somehow he managed to slam his big head into my right eye.
Finally I hauled him into the house. Apparently he not only dislikes travel, has a fear of heights but he must also have a fear of tile floors. I had to use the push/pull technique again to get him into the laundry room.
Since I had been expecting to bring home a tiny fuzzy semi-helpless little puppy I had arranged a very small but cozy doggie bed in one corner of the laundry room. The "puppy" took one look at it, tossed it up in the air and began to shred it. "N0 No" I yelled while making a grab for it.
Immediately , the "puppy" lost interest in it and managed to slip out the laundry room door. I could hear unidentifiable objects crashing to the floor as he thundered though the house. I flung the shredded doggie bed to one side and ran after him.
He mowed though the house with his tremendously long tail whirling like a helicopter. Everything in it's wake toppled to the floor. Before I could catch him he discovered an edge of the dangling table cloth and gave it a side to side jerking pull. My china, glasses, cups, saucers, silverware and beautiful center piece cascaded off the table in a wild cacophony of clatter as they shattered.
I lunged for the puppy, but as I attempted to grab hold of his collar he backed under the table with my frayed centerpiece in his mouth. His tail wagged gleefully and his eyes sparkled with merriment. He was thoroughly enjoying this insane game.
I crawled on hands and knees under the table and managed to grab hold of his collar but not before cutting my left knee on a broken piece of glass. A head bumped sharply on the underside of the table. It wasn't the puppy's !
I managed to drag him back to the laundry room. However, as I attempted to close the door he sensed my intention and tried to squeeze his bulky body through the narrowing crack. I stopped closing the door to avoid slamming his nose in it. With one hand on the door knob I used the other hand to shove him back into the laundry room. In the process I managed to close the door on my hand. We both began to howl simultaneously.
Once the door closed I slid to the floor. I was exhausted, disheveled, and smelled like dog vomit, but at least I was victorious. I badly needed a shower, I also needed to salvage the dinner table and finish fixing dinner. My guests were scheduled to arrive in approximately 45 minutes.
I hobbled to the bathroom trying to ignore the morbid howling and sounds of mass destruction coming from the laundry room. Glancing in the mirror I saw my right eye black and blue and swollen nearly shut. It matched my left hand which was now throbbing. Strands of my hair were stuck together, my knee was bleeding, and I smelled like I'd spent the night sleeping in a fermenting dumpster.
Sniffling, I turned on the hot water tap in the shower and began to peel off the stiff stinking clothes. Over the howls (mostly mine) and the running water I heard the doorbell ring. Wouldn't you know it? My guests were early!
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Saturday, December 19, 2009
The Fix-It Clan
This tale is a continuation of "Dyno-Might." It moves us into the aftermath of that fateful day. As previously mentioned, Tina and Albert's trailer was blown to smithereens when the over use of dynamite failed to dislodge a bolder in front of their house. So intense was the blast that large chunks their mobile home shot into the air and landed over 300 feet away. Most of the debris wound up on, in, or around Albert's parents home.
One item that did considerable damage was the water heater. It rocketed into the air and landed on the roof of Albert's folks front porch. Now his folks, Wanda Jean and Robbie Ray, were very laid back and pretty much took what ever life handed them in stride. However, a flying water heater apparently crossed some thin line and caused quite a commotion amongst the clan.
Now the interesting thing is that apparently it wasn't an issue of the large smoldering hole it left in the roof of the porch that caused the disagreement. I honestly believe that alone would have been acceptable. The crux of the problem was was that the impact caused by both the explosion and the flying water heater left the porch sitting sharply at opposite angles from the house. It canted off so steeply, that it made it impossible for the senior clan dog "Bare Lee" (don't ask, that's a another story for another time) to lay on the porch without rolling off.
Well about a month passed and the porch still hadn't been repaired. No big surprise there. After all, these things take considerable amounts of beer, tobacco, poker playing, and intense contemplation.
But, as with the passing of seasons, all things eventually take on a new light, and "The boys" finally came up with what they thought was a feasible plan. Tearing down the old structure and building a new one was, to them, an unnecessary amount of work. They reasoned that since the basic framework was sound, there was no need to waste valuable drinking time and energy to tear it down and then just to put it back up again.
In all fairness, I suppose I would have to agree that there didn't appear to be structural damage to the posts. The roof was shot, but the posts and deck looked fairly sound. Really, all in all, from an artistic point of view, it pretty much just looked like a hillbilly version of the Leaning Tower of Pisa.
Because "The boys" had become the brunt of some pretty ruthless jokes after they destroyed half the town while attempting to remove the bolder, they decided to keep their current plan under wraps.
To their way of thinking, the simplest way to fix something that was leaning, was to push or pull it back into a non-leaning position. They were big men so brute strength, a couple of beers, a few sledge hammers, a couple of beers, a house jack, a couple of beers, various other implements, and a few more beers should have done the trick. But to their surprise it didn't. So they came up with another plan.
It is conceivable that the second plan may have worked if it hadn't involved another twelve pack of beer, a very long chain, and a truck that lost it's steering column in the infamous explosion.
Here's what happened:
" The boys" wrapped one end of the long chain to one of the foremost posts on the porch and the other end to the back of the ailing pickup truck. One of them (no one will admit who was driving) got into the pickup truck, took up the slack between the post and the truck, and in their own words; "we gave 'er a gentle tug."
Apparently after a lot of creaking and groaning from the porch, and considerable spinning of the trucks tires, the anonymous driver was told to "hit 'er a little harder and pull 'er more to the left" Now instructions like that are always open to interpretation. I suppose it's a mater of just how much harder "a little harder" actually is. Then there is never ending question of who's left is really left. The latter problem can suddenly become an even bigger problem when someone tries to steer a truck that has no steering.
While this ingenious plan was being implemented, rest of the town, Bruce and I included, had no idea what was going on up the hill. Our perception of that balmy spring day was blissful and positive. Until, that is, the 911 line dedicated to Wanda Jean and Robbie Ray shattered our calm.
I answered the line and said "911 what's your emergency?" (I was required to say that because sometimes folks called to check on the weather or to see if we had ripe tomatoes in sock. Answering the phone in a stiff professional manner sent the message that this was a dedicated line for emergency use only...of course ANY call coming on a line belonging to one of the clan members was always an emergency.)
I sucked in a deep breath and listened as Wanda Jean wailed into my ear "Well they done it! The boys done it! I need an Amb-ba-lance and the undertaker "
My right hand reached automatically for a second line that would dispatched the sheriff, the ambulance, and the volunteer fire department. "What's happened?" I asked as calmly as I could while I punched in various codes to alert first emergency responders.
"Well what happened is that they broke my wind chimes! Every single one of them is busted!" My mind went numb. I couldn't recall an emergency dispatch code for broken wind chimes.. was there one? I tried not to panic. I had been trained to remain calm at all times and to get all the information I could, so I moved past the broken wind chimes and asked "What's happened, why do you need an ambulance and the coroner?"
She shouted "Well it ain't quite happened yet 'cause the boys ran off, but I got the shotgun right here, and when I see them if they are lucky they'll just need the am-ba -lance, but if I'm lucky they'll need the undertaker!"
"Wanda Jean" I said " Put the shotgun down and Bruce and I will be right up." I hung up the phone, and canceled the first response teams. After that, Bruce and I locked the store up and went up the hill to what was going on.
We were surprised, although I have no idea why, to see her front porch strewn out over about a 50 foot area. The bumper of the pickup truck was laying in the middle of the road with a long chain twisted around it. The empty truck was laying on its side halfway down an embankment looking like a charred elephant.
We climbed over the debris, something we were becoming quite accustomed to doing, and reached Wanda Jeans house. Still clutching the shotgun, she stood in the middle of a gaping hole where a door used to be. She was crying and pointing to the ground. Apparently the loss of the porch and a considerable portion of her house didn't bother her too much...but the tangled mess of wind chimes that used to adorn her porch was a transgression not soon to be forgiven.
One item that did considerable damage was the water heater. It rocketed into the air and landed on the roof of Albert's folks front porch. Now his folks, Wanda Jean and Robbie Ray, were very laid back and pretty much took what ever life handed them in stride. However, a flying water heater apparently crossed some thin line and caused quite a commotion amongst the clan.
Now the interesting thing is that apparently it wasn't an issue of the large smoldering hole it left in the roof of the porch that caused the disagreement. I honestly believe that alone would have been acceptable. The crux of the problem was was that the impact caused by both the explosion and the flying water heater left the porch sitting sharply at opposite angles from the house. It canted off so steeply, that it made it impossible for the senior clan dog "Bare Lee" (don't ask, that's a another story for another time) to lay on the porch without rolling off.
Well about a month passed and the porch still hadn't been repaired. No big surprise there. After all, these things take considerable amounts of beer, tobacco, poker playing, and intense contemplation.
But, as with the passing of seasons, all things eventually take on a new light, and "The boys" finally came up with what they thought was a feasible plan. Tearing down the old structure and building a new one was, to them, an unnecessary amount of work. They reasoned that since the basic framework was sound, there was no need to waste valuable drinking time and energy to tear it down and then just to put it back up again.
In all fairness, I suppose I would have to agree that there didn't appear to be structural damage to the posts. The roof was shot, but the posts and deck looked fairly sound. Really, all in all, from an artistic point of view, it pretty much just looked like a hillbilly version of the Leaning Tower of Pisa.
Because "The boys" had become the brunt of some pretty ruthless jokes after they destroyed half the town while attempting to remove the bolder, they decided to keep their current plan under wraps.
To their way of thinking, the simplest way to fix something that was leaning, was to push or pull it back into a non-leaning position. They were big men so brute strength, a couple of beers, a few sledge hammers, a couple of beers, a house jack, a couple of beers, various other implements, and a few more beers should have done the trick. But to their surprise it didn't. So they came up with another plan.
It is conceivable that the second plan may have worked if it hadn't involved another twelve pack of beer, a very long chain, and a truck that lost it's steering column in the infamous explosion.
Here's what happened:
" The boys" wrapped one end of the long chain to one of the foremost posts on the porch and the other end to the back of the ailing pickup truck. One of them (no one will admit who was driving) got into the pickup truck, took up the slack between the post and the truck, and in their own words; "we gave 'er a gentle tug."
Apparently after a lot of creaking and groaning from the porch, and considerable spinning of the trucks tires, the anonymous driver was told to "hit 'er a little harder and pull 'er more to the left" Now instructions like that are always open to interpretation. I suppose it's a mater of just how much harder "a little harder" actually is. Then there is never ending question of who's left is really left. The latter problem can suddenly become an even bigger problem when someone tries to steer a truck that has no steering.
While this ingenious plan was being implemented, rest of the town, Bruce and I included, had no idea what was going on up the hill. Our perception of that balmy spring day was blissful and positive. Until, that is, the 911 line dedicated to Wanda Jean and Robbie Ray shattered our calm.
I answered the line and said "911 what's your emergency?" (I was required to say that because sometimes folks called to check on the weather or to see if we had ripe tomatoes in sock. Answering the phone in a stiff professional manner sent the message that this was a dedicated line for emergency use only...of course ANY call coming on a line belonging to one of the clan members was always an emergency.)
I sucked in a deep breath and listened as Wanda Jean wailed into my ear "Well they done it! The boys done it! I need an Amb-ba-lance and the undertaker "
My right hand reached automatically for a second line that would dispatched the sheriff, the ambulance, and the volunteer fire department. "What's happened?" I asked as calmly as I could while I punched in various codes to alert first emergency responders.
"Well what happened is that they broke my wind chimes! Every single one of them is busted!" My mind went numb. I couldn't recall an emergency dispatch code for broken wind chimes.. was there one? I tried not to panic. I had been trained to remain calm at all times and to get all the information I could, so I moved past the broken wind chimes and asked "What's happened, why do you need an ambulance and the coroner?"
She shouted "Well it ain't quite happened yet 'cause the boys ran off, but I got the shotgun right here, and when I see them if they are lucky they'll just need the am-ba -lance, but if I'm lucky they'll need the undertaker!"
"Wanda Jean" I said " Put the shotgun down and Bruce and I will be right up." I hung up the phone, and canceled the first response teams. After that, Bruce and I locked the store up and went up the hill to what was going on.
We were surprised, although I have no idea why, to see her front porch strewn out over about a 50 foot area. The bumper of the pickup truck was laying in the middle of the road with a long chain twisted around it. The empty truck was laying on its side halfway down an embankment looking like a charred elephant.
We climbed over the debris, something we were becoming quite accustomed to doing, and reached Wanda Jeans house. Still clutching the shotgun, she stood in the middle of a gaping hole where a door used to be. She was crying and pointing to the ground. Apparently the loss of the porch and a considerable portion of her house didn't bother her too much...but the tangled mess of wind chimes that used to adorn her porch was a transgression not soon to be forgiven.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Dyno-Might!
In addition to ranching, until recently we also operated a small mom and pop General Store in a neighboring town. The store was built in the early 1900's and oozed with country ambiance. It had old hardwood floors that were pock marked from the spikes on loggers boots, and permanently stained black spots from the grime on miners boots. It also had an old 4 foot tall pot belly stove surrounded with antique whitewashed wooden benches.
Our little General Store and it's pot belly stove served as the hub of the community. People sometimes came in just for a cup of coffee and a place to warm their toes. It was around that stove that the problems of the world were discussed and solved in plain simple language.
We knew each of the townsfolk by their first name and also knew more about their personal lives than we had a right to know. Small town talk, small town gossip and small town confessions all took place in front of that stove.
We became very close to one particular family that you'd most likely have to describe as "back hill folks." If you were to meet them you would think that this back hill family, with it's kin more plentiful than the fleas on their hounds, stepped right out of the pages of John Steinbeck's novel: The Grapes of Wrath. They looked and sounded the part, but they were the most sincere, honest and friendliest people we had ever met. They were also a never ending source of entertainment with their "accidental antics." God help us, they are still our friends. (Think National Lampoon's A Christmas Vacation.)
One of the younger clan members, Albert and his wife Tina, lived in a single wide mobile home just up the hill about a quarter of a mile from our store. At the time of this tale, Tina was 7 months pregnant, and looked like she was about to give birth to twin baby hippopotamus. I'd never seen any one's belly swell up so big.
Well, one fateful day Tina stepped out of their mobile home and fell for the ten millionth time over a large boulder that protruded out of the ground just about a foot from the bottom step of their trailer. That boulder had been there forever, and why Albert and his clan pulled the trailer into that exact spot we will never know. It was a death defying obstacle for anyone trying to enter or leave their home.
So on that day, Tina had fallen while carrying a large load of clean laundry out to be hung on the line. Since it had rained the night before the bolder was exceptionally slick. She came up out of the mud kicking and spitting and told Al he had to either move the trailer , move the bolder or she was moving out!
Now, in case you don't know this, it's never wise to challenge a guy from the back woods. He'll think on it a bit and come up with what he thinks is the simplest solution. I'm not saying Al is lazy, I'm just saying that if there is a difficult, albeit right way, of doing something and a seemingly simpler way of doing something ... albeit totally insane, he'll choose the later.
After a 12 pack of beer and a meeting with all the men folk in the clan, an idea was hatched to dig a hole about a foot deep on the back side of the rock and plant a small load of dynamite to dislodge the menace.
We didn't learn of the plan until the men came into the store for two more 12 packs of beer. We tried desperately to talk them out of it, but they wouldn't hear of it. On the up side, were pleased to learn that they at least had the common sense to evacuate the women and children from the immediate area... maybe they sent them away just to shut them up. Either way, it was good.
Several hours passed and the afternoon began to wane into a peaceful spring dusk. Since hours had passed and we hadn't heard any blasting, we assumed the clan had reconsidered the idea of blowing the bolder out of the ground. We joked that perhaps they had thankfully passed out from the beer and were sleeping in heaps atop the bolder.
Suddenly we heard a small explosion. It wasn't big enough to concern us, so my husband and I looked at each other, with raised eyebrows and gave each other a knowing nod that said "Ahh, "The boys" went ahead and blew the rock after all."
I should mention that our store was not only the hub of the town in an ascetic way, it also housed the local 911 emergency switchboard. Our job was to sell merchandise, sooth heartbreaks, burp crying babies, bandage skinned knees, and answer the 911 calls for the town. We were also part of the volunteer fire department, volunteer sheriffs team, and the volunteer search and rescue...oh, and the volunteer animal control.
After the little blast, we turned our attention to the switch board. To our relief it didn't light up. Apparently, and surprisingly, all had gone well.
Before long, night was trying to settle on the sleepy hills of our town. One by one the lights in houses came on. People lit their wood stoves and the crisp night air filled with the delightful scents of dozens of dinners cooking.
After a long day it was time for my husband, Bruce, and I to close the store. I gave a yawn, and reached up to pull down the large antique canvas shades that had covered the front windows of the store for the past 60 years. Just as the first one reached the bottom of the window sill, I heard Bruce say something from further back in the store. I don't quite recall exactly what it was, but I think it had something to do with being thankful "The boys" hadn't blown up the whole town.
The next thing I remember, I was sprawled on the hardwood floor with the front curtains draped over me . Through my ringing ears, I heard the sound of glass breaking, wood shattering and merchandise crashing to the floor throughout the store.
The 911 phone lines on the switchboard somewhere in the debris above me began to shrill with multiple calls coming in. Someone in town (besides us?) needed help. I fought my way out from under the curtains, wood splinters, glass shards and something slimy and gooey that I prayed was canned peaches and not my brains seeping out.
I screamed for Bruce and prayed he was alright. When I finally heard him mumble a response, my heart beat steadied a bit.
When at last was able to free myself from the rest of the rubble and pull myself to my feet I saw Bruce walking zombie like down the dry goods isle covered in what looked like the ingredients for an amazingly large cake. Flour, sugar and maybe even salt...who could tell?
I turned my attention to the 911 switchboard. Not a single line was free. I took the call from Al and Tina's line first, fearing the worst.
I was relieved to hear Tina drawl "hallo ? hallo? " on the other end of the line. All I could say was "Damn it Tina what happened? Do you need an ambulance?" Is everyone ok? The fire department will be up soon! What happened?"
My heart thumped as she sobbed and quietly said "Well The boys blew up that widower making hell rock and I guess they did a fine job of it." Then she wailed "But we ain't got no house no more! Most of it is over at Daddy's place in pieces." ("Daddy" was Al's father who lived about the equivalent of a city block away from them.)
The door of the store was blocked so Bruce and I crawled though the shattered front window and rushed to the scene of the "accident." Once there we surveyed the situation and took reports. It seems that the first try didn't even budge the massive bolder so "The boys" deiced to give it the "full payload" They grinned sheepishly and said "It were the rock or us by then ya know."
The next morning when the dust had settle the town was amazed to see the full extent of damage caused by the "full payload" discharged by "The boys." Not only had it blown the trailer to shreds, it demolished 3 pickup trucks, leveled a wood shed across the street, deafened a stray dog, singed a cat's tail, blew out more than half of the windows in the town, and left a crater large enough to bury 2 full grown elephants in. Ironically, the bolder still sat quietly and defiantly in place.
Our little General Store and it's pot belly stove served as the hub of the community. People sometimes came in just for a cup of coffee and a place to warm their toes. It was around that stove that the problems of the world were discussed and solved in plain simple language.
We knew each of the townsfolk by their first name and also knew more about their personal lives than we had a right to know. Small town talk, small town gossip and small town confessions all took place in front of that stove.
We became very close to one particular family that you'd most likely have to describe as "back hill folks." If you were to meet them you would think that this back hill family, with it's kin more plentiful than the fleas on their hounds, stepped right out of the pages of John Steinbeck's novel: The Grapes of Wrath. They looked and sounded the part, but they were the most sincere, honest and friendliest people we had ever met. They were also a never ending source of entertainment with their "accidental antics." God help us, they are still our friends. (Think National Lampoon's A Christmas Vacation.)
One of the younger clan members, Albert and his wife Tina, lived in a single wide mobile home just up the hill about a quarter of a mile from our store. At the time of this tale, Tina was 7 months pregnant, and looked like she was about to give birth to twin baby hippopotamus. I'd never seen any one's belly swell up so big.
Well, one fateful day Tina stepped out of their mobile home and fell for the ten millionth time over a large boulder that protruded out of the ground just about a foot from the bottom step of their trailer. That boulder had been there forever, and why Albert and his clan pulled the trailer into that exact spot we will never know. It was a death defying obstacle for anyone trying to enter or leave their home.
So on that day, Tina had fallen while carrying a large load of clean laundry out to be hung on the line. Since it had rained the night before the bolder was exceptionally slick. She came up out of the mud kicking and spitting and told Al he had to either move the trailer , move the bolder or she was moving out!
Now, in case you don't know this, it's never wise to challenge a guy from the back woods. He'll think on it a bit and come up with what he thinks is the simplest solution. I'm not saying Al is lazy, I'm just saying that if there is a difficult, albeit right way, of doing something and a seemingly simpler way of doing something ... albeit totally insane, he'll choose the later.
After a 12 pack of beer and a meeting with all the men folk in the clan, an idea was hatched to dig a hole about a foot deep on the back side of the rock and plant a small load of dynamite to dislodge the menace.
We didn't learn of the plan until the men came into the store for two more 12 packs of beer. We tried desperately to talk them out of it, but they wouldn't hear of it. On the up side, were pleased to learn that they at least had the common sense to evacuate the women and children from the immediate area... maybe they sent them away just to shut them up. Either way, it was good.
Several hours passed and the afternoon began to wane into a peaceful spring dusk. Since hours had passed and we hadn't heard any blasting, we assumed the clan had reconsidered the idea of blowing the bolder out of the ground. We joked that perhaps they had thankfully passed out from the beer and were sleeping in heaps atop the bolder.
Suddenly we heard a small explosion. It wasn't big enough to concern us, so my husband and I looked at each other, with raised eyebrows and gave each other a knowing nod that said "Ahh, "The boys" went ahead and blew the rock after all."
I should mention that our store was not only the hub of the town in an ascetic way, it also housed the local 911 emergency switchboard. Our job was to sell merchandise, sooth heartbreaks, burp crying babies, bandage skinned knees, and answer the 911 calls for the town. We were also part of the volunteer fire department, volunteer sheriffs team, and the volunteer search and rescue...oh, and the volunteer animal control.
After the little blast, we turned our attention to the switch board. To our relief it didn't light up. Apparently, and surprisingly, all had gone well.
Before long, night was trying to settle on the sleepy hills of our town. One by one the lights in houses came on. People lit their wood stoves and the crisp night air filled with the delightful scents of dozens of dinners cooking.
After a long day it was time for my husband, Bruce, and I to close the store. I gave a yawn, and reached up to pull down the large antique canvas shades that had covered the front windows of the store for the past 60 years. Just as the first one reached the bottom of the window sill, I heard Bruce say something from further back in the store. I don't quite recall exactly what it was, but I think it had something to do with being thankful "The boys" hadn't blown up the whole town.
The next thing I remember, I was sprawled on the hardwood floor with the front curtains draped over me . Through my ringing ears, I heard the sound of glass breaking, wood shattering and merchandise crashing to the floor throughout the store.
The 911 phone lines on the switchboard somewhere in the debris above me began to shrill with multiple calls coming in. Someone in town (besides us?) needed help. I fought my way out from under the curtains, wood splinters, glass shards and something slimy and gooey that I prayed was canned peaches and not my brains seeping out.
I screamed for Bruce and prayed he was alright. When I finally heard him mumble a response, my heart beat steadied a bit.
When at last was able to free myself from the rest of the rubble and pull myself to my feet I saw Bruce walking zombie like down the dry goods isle covered in what looked like the ingredients for an amazingly large cake. Flour, sugar and maybe even salt...who could tell?
I turned my attention to the 911 switchboard. Not a single line was free. I took the call from Al and Tina's line first, fearing the worst.
I was relieved to hear Tina drawl "hallo ? hallo? " on the other end of the line. All I could say was "Damn it Tina what happened? Do you need an ambulance?" Is everyone ok? The fire department will be up soon! What happened?"
My heart thumped as she sobbed and quietly said "Well The boys blew up that widower making hell rock and I guess they did a fine job of it." Then she wailed "But we ain't got no house no more! Most of it is over at Daddy's place in pieces." ("Daddy" was Al's father who lived about the equivalent of a city block away from them.)
The door of the store was blocked so Bruce and I crawled though the shattered front window and rushed to the scene of the "accident." Once there we surveyed the situation and took reports. It seems that the first try didn't even budge the massive bolder so "The boys" deiced to give it the "full payload" They grinned sheepishly and said "It were the rock or us by then ya know."
The next morning when the dust had settle the town was amazed to see the full extent of damage caused by the "full payload" discharged by "The boys." Not only had it blown the trailer to shreds, it demolished 3 pickup trucks, leveled a wood shed across the street, deafened a stray dog, singed a cat's tail, blew out more than half of the windows in the town, and left a crater large enough to bury 2 full grown elephants in. Ironically, the bolder still sat quietly and defiantly in place.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
'Twas The Night Before Calving.
There is a general consensus that cows are very slow witted. Some folks go as far as to say they are profoundly stupid. I disagree. I think they are extremely smart and have an aloof personality not unlike that of a cat. True, they do what they want, when they want to do it, and they do it on their own terms. I think that puts them in a category of having a pretty high level of intelligence.
We raise a few head of cattle here on the the ranch. To be exact, we have a tiny heard of tiny miniature cows. They average about 40 inches tall. They apparently don't know they are small because they have large attitudes. That is especially true of "Soul Fire", our bull. Like most bulls, he fluctuates between a calm semi- sweet mode and a testosterone driven killer mode. He switches them back and forth like a human bull switches channels on a television.
Because we are never sure how Soul Fire will react in any given situation we always give him a wide berth and move cautiously around him. Did I mention he has a set of full sized horns that add to our need for caution ?
A little while back one of our cows "Twinkle" was getting ready to give birth. As the expected date grew near we watched anxiously for signs of labor. When at last the tell-tell signs appeared we decided it was time to separate her from the bull and rest of the herd and move her the birthing pen. That task is generally easy and creates no problems, however things didn't go quite as planned this time.
For some reason Twinkle, who is generally sweet and cooperative, got it into her head that she did not want to go into the birthing pen. No amount of coaxing, prodding, pleading, trickery, tomfoolery, or copious amounts of hay and grain could get her to change her mind. Fact: She was not going into the pen.
The following are notes I've made in the Calving Journal:
(Note to self: When attempting to lure a pregnant cow into the birthing pen mind where your hind-end is, and do not back into the electric fence wire. Backing into the electric fence wire causes a sudden explosion of energy that catapults a person forward into the metal gate.
Catapulting into the metal gate can cause that person to cut her hand on a sharp corner of latch. Cutting that persons hand on the gate can cause that person to yelp in pain, jump backward and hit the electric fence again.
Result? That person is overcome with an indefinably long period of a numbing sensation from head to toe that can cause that persons feet and mind to go completely numb.
Result? Trying to walk with a numb mind and numb feet can cause that person to trip over a rock and fall face down.
Result? There is a 100% chance the pregnant cow will spook due to all the commotion and run to the opposite side of the pasture.
Result? Numb minded, numb footed, bleeding person will most likely trot after the frightened pregnant cow in an attempt to lure her back to the point of origin and the gate of the birthing pen.
Result? Moving from the shelter of the birthing pen, the bull can now see the numb minded, numb footed, bleeding and let's now add stupid person chasing after the love of his life. This causes him to become irritated and he charges toward them.
Result? Husband of numb minded, numb footed, bleeding, stupid person, hollers to her with a warning that the bull is headed toward her and not looking at all happy with the current situation in his pasture.... Dah!
Result? Stupid, numb minded, numb footed, bleeding, frightened, person trotting after the pregnant cow now realizes there is no way she can outrun the irritated bull and his big horns, so she dives into an outcropping of large over-grown black berry bushes.
Result? Bull show signs of being much smarter than stupid, numb minded, numb footed, bleeding, frightened person hiding in the black berry bushes. He begins to calmly graze on the berry leaves a few feet from her face while blocking any means of escape and waiting patiently for the opportunity to charge her once she moves into the open.
Result? Stupid, numb minded, numb footed, frightened, bleeding person begins to bleed more profusely from being pricked by the thorns of the ancient black berry bushes, nearly pees her pants and screams for help.
Result? Calm husband saves the day by tossing a half bale of hay over the fence on the opposite side of the pasture so stupid, numb minded, numb footed, profusely bleeding, frightened person can rapidly escape over the electric fence.
Result? Once the bull moves from the immediate area, stupid, stupid, stupid, numb minded, numb footed, frightened, and profusely bleeding person lets out a war whoop and dives head first over the electric fence. She most likely looks like a world class high diving champion as she lands safely, albeit painfully, on the rocky ground outside the pasture.
Result? Husband emerges from the barn and yells "OK, the fence if off, you can climb out now... hey...where are you?"
Result? Husband gets an ear full of unique and descriptive adjectives as stupid, numb minded, numb footed, profusely bleeding, frightened, angry person, limps toward him with clinched teeth and fists.
Final result? When husband is reunited with his angry, limping, stupid, numb minded, numb footed, frightened, bleeding wife who, by the way, is still spewing foreign sounding words from her mouth, they notice the pregnant cow is totally missing. She is nowhere in sight. The bull and the rest of the herd are munching cheerfully on their new bounty of hay, but there is no sign of the pregnant cow.
Ahh hah! When finally located it was duly noted that the pregnant cow had miraculously walked up into the birthing pen on her own and was in the early stages of an easy labor.
End Notes to self)
Memo to Self: Never try to outsmart a pregnant cow and her vicious mate.
We raise a few head of cattle here on the the ranch. To be exact, we have a tiny heard of tiny miniature cows. They average about 40 inches tall. They apparently don't know they are small because they have large attitudes. That is especially true of "Soul Fire", our bull. Like most bulls, he fluctuates between a calm semi- sweet mode and a testosterone driven killer mode. He switches them back and forth like a human bull switches channels on a television.
Because we are never sure how Soul Fire will react in any given situation we always give him a wide berth and move cautiously around him. Did I mention he has a set of full sized horns that add to our need for caution ?
A little while back one of our cows "Twinkle" was getting ready to give birth. As the expected date grew near we watched anxiously for signs of labor. When at last the tell-tell signs appeared we decided it was time to separate her from the bull and rest of the herd and move her the birthing pen. That task is generally easy and creates no problems, however things didn't go quite as planned this time.
For some reason Twinkle, who is generally sweet and cooperative, got it into her head that she did not want to go into the birthing pen. No amount of coaxing, prodding, pleading, trickery, tomfoolery, or copious amounts of hay and grain could get her to change her mind. Fact: She was not going into the pen.
The following are notes I've made in the Calving Journal:
(Note to self: When attempting to lure a pregnant cow into the birthing pen mind where your hind-end is, and do not back into the electric fence wire. Backing into the electric fence wire causes a sudden explosion of energy that catapults a person forward into the metal gate.
Catapulting into the metal gate can cause that person to cut her hand on a sharp corner of latch. Cutting that persons hand on the gate can cause that person to yelp in pain, jump backward and hit the electric fence again.
Result? That person is overcome with an indefinably long period of a numbing sensation from head to toe that can cause that persons feet and mind to go completely numb.
Result? Trying to walk with a numb mind and numb feet can cause that person to trip over a rock and fall face down.
Result? There is a 100% chance the pregnant cow will spook due to all the commotion and run to the opposite side of the pasture.
Result? Numb minded, numb footed, bleeding person will most likely trot after the frightened pregnant cow in an attempt to lure her back to the point of origin and the gate of the birthing pen.
Result? Moving from the shelter of the birthing pen, the bull can now see the numb minded, numb footed, bleeding and let's now add stupid person chasing after the love of his life. This causes him to become irritated and he charges toward them.
Result? Husband of numb minded, numb footed, bleeding, stupid person, hollers to her with a warning that the bull is headed toward her and not looking at all happy with the current situation in his pasture.... Dah!
Result? Stupid, numb minded, numb footed, bleeding, frightened, person trotting after the pregnant cow now realizes there is no way she can outrun the irritated bull and his big horns, so she dives into an outcropping of large over-grown black berry bushes.
Result? Bull show signs of being much smarter than stupid, numb minded, numb footed, bleeding, frightened person hiding in the black berry bushes. He begins to calmly graze on the berry leaves a few feet from her face while blocking any means of escape and waiting patiently for the opportunity to charge her once she moves into the open.
Result? Stupid, numb minded, numb footed, frightened, bleeding person begins to bleed more profusely from being pricked by the thorns of the ancient black berry bushes, nearly pees her pants and screams for help.
Result? Calm husband saves the day by tossing a half bale of hay over the fence on the opposite side of the pasture so stupid, numb minded, numb footed, profusely bleeding, frightened person can rapidly escape over the electric fence.
Result? Once the bull moves from the immediate area, stupid, stupid, stupid, numb minded, numb footed, frightened, and profusely bleeding person lets out a war whoop and dives head first over the electric fence. She most likely looks like a world class high diving champion as she lands safely, albeit painfully, on the rocky ground outside the pasture.
Result? Husband emerges from the barn and yells "OK, the fence if off, you can climb out now... hey...where are you?"
Result? Husband gets an ear full of unique and descriptive adjectives as stupid, numb minded, numb footed, profusely bleeding, frightened, angry person, limps toward him with clinched teeth and fists.
Final result? When husband is reunited with his angry, limping, stupid, numb minded, numb footed, frightened, bleeding wife who, by the way, is still spewing foreign sounding words from her mouth, they notice the pregnant cow is totally missing. She is nowhere in sight. The bull and the rest of the herd are munching cheerfully on their new bounty of hay, but there is no sign of the pregnant cow.
Ahh hah! When finally located it was duly noted that the pregnant cow had miraculously walked up into the birthing pen on her own and was in the early stages of an easy labor.
End Notes to self)
Memo to Self: Never try to outsmart a pregnant cow and her vicious mate.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Bears Make Strange Fireside Guests!
My husband, Bruce, and I have a deep fondness for nature. We enjoy everything about the outdoors, and in particular camping. Now when I say "camping," I'm not talking about hauling all the necessities of home to an established campsite or R.V. Park. I'm talking about setting up a camp in the middle of untamed wilderness.
We have a good friend whose idea of "Camping" is sleeping with his windows open, and another who drives a 100 thousand dollar giant motor home into a KOA campground and turns his kids loose with skateboards, I-Pods and dirt bikes. So, lose that image of camping and think of our outings as being more like Lewis and Clark...or even Star Trek ("Where no man has ever gone before.")
Alright, well if you have the picture let me tell you about a particular camping trip we had not too terribly long ago. We are, as I have established, seasoned campers. We know all the rules of wilderness camping, and we take the necessary safety precautions. That is...most of the time.
Here's what happened: On this particular outing I was cursed with one of the most piercing migraine headaches that I think any human has ever endured. I kept thinking maybe I had been shot in the head and didn't know it. There were no holes and no blood, but still I kept checking...it was that bad.
This particular night we had followed an old abandoned logging road that wound us up around and though a dense forest. We were fortunate to find a fairly even spot next to a babbling creek that offered an ideal spot to spend the night.
Thinking that maybe a good hot meal would help matters, Bruce lit a campfire and I began to unload the food from two monstrously large ice chests in our trusty old CJ-7 Jeep. We may be fond of wilderness camping, but food is not something we sacrifice in order to participate in the sport. We eat very very well.
While I sizzled 2 steaks over the fire, Bruce set up the tent. While he unloaded the sleeping gear, I nestled a couple of pre-baked potatoes down into the hot coals to heat, and nudged tin-foil wrapped garlic bread next to it. While he secured the jeep and took out our precautionary weapon, I popped open a container of Waldorf Salad (Seriously ...we eat well on these trips.)
When the steaks were ready we hunkered down on a log and ate like royalty. The headache didn't respond to food and I was feeling lousy, so I broke a serious camping rule. The number one golden rule of wilderness camping. Never ever ever keep food or used utensils near the area where you are sleeping.
Now, generally we take the rule to the extreme and suspend our ice chests on a rope from a tree limb. I never wash utensils within 100 yards of the camp. However with my mega headache I thought "what the heck..we never see bears." and I broke that one little rule...just once. I simply tossed the utensils in the creek to deal with the next morning, and I put the ice chests back in the jeep.
Ok...so I'm sure you know by now what is about to happen. If you are squeamish you can stop reading now.
Sometime around 2am, Bruce and I were awakened from a sound sleep by a low guttural growl. Both of us shot up into a sitting position in our sleeping bags. Bruce said "did you hear that? we have a bear close by!" My only response was my chattering teeth. We sat completely motionless and listened. Again there came a low guttural growl, this time a bit closer than the first one we heard.
Bruce slowly unzipped the sleeping bag and crawled to his knees. Barely breathing we listened. We heard silence broken every few minutes by a growl... it headed directly toward our tent. It couldn't have been more than a few hundred yards off.
"The gun" he hissed... "I can't find the gun!" OMG! had I put it back in the jeep in my near coma state because of the headache? I couldn't remember! "OK" he said "we should be fine, there are only black bears in this area..I'm going to go to the jeep and look for the gun." He stood and as he was about to unzip the door flap on the tent he said "It's a good thing you secured the food."
Double OMG! "Wait" I choked out "Actually I didn't." He whirled around in horror and whispered so loudly it sounded like air escaping from a truck tire "YOU WHAT?"
The growling kept inching toward us...what to do? Finally Bruce said "I'll go ahead and unlock the jeep, then you run out and jump in. If things get bad we can always start it and drive away!"
Good plan! Ok...so that is what we did. We both hurled ourselves into the jeep with such force it's a wonder the tires didn't blow out from our sudden impact . We sat and we waited. Occasionally Bruce would roll his window down slightly and listen. When he wasn't listening he was chastising me for my negligence. What could I say except "I know, I know...I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
For the longest time the growling noise circled around us, then finally grew silent. We checked our watches, it was nearly 4am. We had been sitting in the jeep for nearly 3 hours awaiting our fate.
Finally as the sun began to creep over the tops of the trees and filter down into our campsite we decided to leave our metal cocoon and look for paw prints to see how close we came to being a midnight snack for a hungry bear.
With gun in hand we circled the camp, but found no signs of bear. No scat, no clawed trees, no prints.
About an hour later as we sat in the back of the jeep eating beef jerky (the gourmet breakfast was postponed for obvious reasons ) we heard another vehicle coming up the logging road. We assumed it was bear hunters.
To our surprise a beat up old red Ford pick-up truck eventually pulled up next to the jeep and an old wrangler stepped down. "Hey, howdy folks" he said grinning "Don't often see folks up in this part of the woods." He looked around at our campsite and nodded thoughtfully.
Bruce started to tell him about the visitor we'd had during the night but before he got to far into the story...He old guy scrunched up his lips and pushed his hat back a bit and said "I'll jest bet that was old Hank, That's about what he sounds like when he's stressed...I'm up here looking for him."
Well it turns out that "Old Hank" was a 12 year old renegade bovine bull that apparently suffers from Alzheimer's disease and often wanders off from the rest of the herd and gets lost.
Bruce protested and said it sure sounded like a bear to us, but the old guy said "Nope I'll just bet that was Hank, best be after him before he completely looses himself." as he got in his truck we heard him mumble "should just shoot that ol'......"
Later as we were breaking camp, the old wrangler came back by with "Old Hank" tethered in the back of his pick-up as they slowly drove past us the old wrangler tipped his hat and Old Hank give us a familiar growl.
It just isn't right that an old bull can sound like a bear and scare people half to death!
We have a good friend whose idea of "Camping" is sleeping with his windows open, and another who drives a 100 thousand dollar giant motor home into a KOA campground and turns his kids loose with skateboards, I-Pods and dirt bikes. So, lose that image of camping and think of our outings as being more like Lewis and Clark...or even Star Trek ("Where no man has ever gone before.")
Alright, well if you have the picture let me tell you about a particular camping trip we had not too terribly long ago. We are, as I have established, seasoned campers. We know all the rules of wilderness camping, and we take the necessary safety precautions. That is...most of the time.
Here's what happened: On this particular outing I was cursed with one of the most piercing migraine headaches that I think any human has ever endured. I kept thinking maybe I had been shot in the head and didn't know it. There were no holes and no blood, but still I kept checking...it was that bad.
This particular night we had followed an old abandoned logging road that wound us up around and though a dense forest. We were fortunate to find a fairly even spot next to a babbling creek that offered an ideal spot to spend the night.
Thinking that maybe a good hot meal would help matters, Bruce lit a campfire and I began to unload the food from two monstrously large ice chests in our trusty old CJ-7 Jeep. We may be fond of wilderness camping, but food is not something we sacrifice in order to participate in the sport. We eat very very well.
While I sizzled 2 steaks over the fire, Bruce set up the tent. While he unloaded the sleeping gear, I nestled a couple of pre-baked potatoes down into the hot coals to heat, and nudged tin-foil wrapped garlic bread next to it. While he secured the jeep and took out our precautionary weapon, I popped open a container of Waldorf Salad (Seriously ...we eat well on these trips.)
When the steaks were ready we hunkered down on a log and ate like royalty. The headache didn't respond to food and I was feeling lousy, so I broke a serious camping rule. The number one golden rule of wilderness camping. Never ever ever keep food or used utensils near the area where you are sleeping.
Now, generally we take the rule to the extreme and suspend our ice chests on a rope from a tree limb. I never wash utensils within 100 yards of the camp. However with my mega headache I thought "what the heck..we never see bears." and I broke that one little rule...just once. I simply tossed the utensils in the creek to deal with the next morning, and I put the ice chests back in the jeep.
Ok...so I'm sure you know by now what is about to happen. If you are squeamish you can stop reading now.
Sometime around 2am, Bruce and I were awakened from a sound sleep by a low guttural growl. Both of us shot up into a sitting position in our sleeping bags. Bruce said "did you hear that? we have a bear close by!" My only response was my chattering teeth. We sat completely motionless and listened. Again there came a low guttural growl, this time a bit closer than the first one we heard.
Bruce slowly unzipped the sleeping bag and crawled to his knees. Barely breathing we listened. We heard silence broken every few minutes by a growl... it headed directly toward our tent. It couldn't have been more than a few hundred yards off.
"The gun" he hissed... "I can't find the gun!" OMG! had I put it back in the jeep in my near coma state because of the headache? I couldn't remember! "OK" he said "we should be fine, there are only black bears in this area..I'm going to go to the jeep and look for the gun." He stood and as he was about to unzip the door flap on the tent he said "It's a good thing you secured the food."
Double OMG! "Wait" I choked out "Actually I didn't." He whirled around in horror and whispered so loudly it sounded like air escaping from a truck tire "YOU WHAT?"
The growling kept inching toward us...what to do? Finally Bruce said "I'll go ahead and unlock the jeep, then you run out and jump in. If things get bad we can always start it and drive away!"
Good plan! Ok...so that is what we did. We both hurled ourselves into the jeep with such force it's a wonder the tires didn't blow out from our sudden impact . We sat and we waited. Occasionally Bruce would roll his window down slightly and listen. When he wasn't listening he was chastising me for my negligence. What could I say except "I know, I know...I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
For the longest time the growling noise circled around us, then finally grew silent. We checked our watches, it was nearly 4am. We had been sitting in the jeep for nearly 3 hours awaiting our fate.
Finally as the sun began to creep over the tops of the trees and filter down into our campsite we decided to leave our metal cocoon and look for paw prints to see how close we came to being a midnight snack for a hungry bear.
With gun in hand we circled the camp, but found no signs of bear. No scat, no clawed trees, no prints.
About an hour later as we sat in the back of the jeep eating beef jerky (the gourmet breakfast was postponed for obvious reasons ) we heard another vehicle coming up the logging road. We assumed it was bear hunters.
To our surprise a beat up old red Ford pick-up truck eventually pulled up next to the jeep and an old wrangler stepped down. "Hey, howdy folks" he said grinning "Don't often see folks up in this part of the woods." He looked around at our campsite and nodded thoughtfully.
Bruce started to tell him about the visitor we'd had during the night but before he got to far into the story...He old guy scrunched up his lips and pushed his hat back a bit and said "I'll jest bet that was old Hank, That's about what he sounds like when he's stressed...I'm up here looking for him."
Well it turns out that "Old Hank" was a 12 year old renegade bovine bull that apparently suffers from Alzheimer's disease and often wanders off from the rest of the herd and gets lost.
Bruce protested and said it sure sounded like a bear to us, but the old guy said "Nope I'll just bet that was Hank, best be after him before he completely looses himself." as he got in his truck we heard him mumble "should just shoot that ol'......"
Later as we were breaking camp, the old wrangler came back by with "Old Hank" tethered in the back of his pick-up as they slowly drove past us the old wrangler tipped his hat and Old Hank give us a familiar growl.
It just isn't right that an old bull can sound like a bear and scare people half to death!
Monday, December 7, 2009
Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer
It seems that this time every year disc jockeys are overcome by a strange phenomenon that can only be described as ebullient. I'm not talking about the Christmas Spirit. The Christmas Spirit is something entirely different and set wholly apart from this peculiar occurrence. In fact I'd say the Christmas Spirit is actually pretty close to the opposite of what I'm talking about. Actually I think it is a form of what physiologists might call temporary insanity.
It is the obsessive and uncontrollable desire to repeatedly broadcast irritating and annoying Christmas ditties over and over again. Take for instance "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer" It's cute and I enjoy it about the first 20 or so times I hear it every year, after that it becomes as irritating as an itch in the middle of your back that you can't reach to scratch.
Tonight however, that particular tune took on a new and almost reverent meaning for me. Here's why:
Being conscientious ranchers my husband, Bruce, and I have a nightly routine that involves what we call "making the rounds." Every night just as the sun slips behind the mountains, we check all the animals on the property to be sure they are settled in safely. This involves shutting the door on the chicken coop after the chickens have gone in to roost, and other similar tasks.
Bruce generally takes care of the animals toward the back of the property and I handle the ones toward the front. Tonight however, Bruce was late getting home from work due to the copious amounts of snow clogging the roadways, so I set out on my own to "make the rounds."
I am quite capable of making solo rounds and, in fact, I do it quite often. Tonight however as the sun began to set the temperature dropped extremely fast causing the 16 or so inches of snow to ice over. I noted the sudden change and dressed appropriately. By the time I left the house I was wearing a shirt, a sweatshirt, a long sleeved jacket, a pair of jeans, a scarf, mittens, a hat, 2 pairs of socks and Bruce's big rubber boots. I could barely walk but I was warm. There are times when making a fashion statement is really not important.
The ground had become a solid sheet of ice by then, so I was taking little baby steps. About half way out to the chicken shed I realized that rubber boots were not the best choice for walking on ice. I was slipping so much that it began to feel like I was on a treadmill going nowhere.
My eyes were focused on my feet and the ground under them as I took each carefully executed step. I have no idea how I thought that might help, but that's where my focus was.
As I rounded the corner of a fenced in area, I reached out to take hold of the corner post. Before my hand was able to connect with the post I heard a loud wheezy snort that came from just around the big wooden post. I jerked my head up so quickly that it caused me feet to slip out from under me.
Now when you meet up with something that snorts at you on a cold dark winters night, you'd like to be able to make some choices as to how you are going to handle the inevitable encounter. Sadly, I wasn't given that freedom of choice. I was flat on my back. The more I struggled under the 100 pounds of excess clothing the more I slipped. I began to gasp, snort and whine.
I knew I was at deaths door. The first thing that came to mind was "bear" because we have been having routine visits from a rather imposing hulk of a black bear. The second thing that came to mind was that our bull must have broken out of his pen. The final thing that came to mind was that I was about to die wearing a hideous outfit, maybe fashion does count.
The snorts continued and seemd to be getting even louder and closer. I could see puffs of hot breath swirling around the corner of the post. Finally I was able to grab hold of the post and roll myself over. That tidy maneuver put me nose to nose with my snorting attacker. It wasn't a bear or a bull, it was very large and very frighted white tailed buck deer. He was monstrously large! From my perspective he looked the size of an elk. I swear his antlers were 10 feet across. You might think is an exaggeration, but he was big and so were his horns. Of course they say that people at the scene of a crime or accident tend to overstate the circumstances. Maybe.
It's fair to say he scared me nearly to death. It's also fair to say I scared him nearly to death. Neither of us could get a good foot hold on the icy surface. His back legs were sprawled out behind him and so were mine. We both flailed , snorted, and grunted.
Finally he was able to get his feet under him and in one big thrust, he flew over the top of me and disappeared into the darkness. After a minute I was able to gain my composure and get to my feet.
About that time Bruce pulled into the driveway and yelled "Hey did you see that giant buck? Wow what a beauty! Amazing ! Awesome! ..Did you see him..Wow!"
It was a guy thing, and I didn't want to spoil the magic of his moment so I shook my head and quietly said "no, was there a buck in here?" Then I walked slowly and carefully back to the house humming "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer."
It is the obsessive and uncontrollable desire to repeatedly broadcast irritating and annoying Christmas ditties over and over again. Take for instance "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer" It's cute and I enjoy it about the first 20 or so times I hear it every year, after that it becomes as irritating as an itch in the middle of your back that you can't reach to scratch.
Tonight however, that particular tune took on a new and almost reverent meaning for me. Here's why:
Being conscientious ranchers my husband, Bruce, and I have a nightly routine that involves what we call "making the rounds." Every night just as the sun slips behind the mountains, we check all the animals on the property to be sure they are settled in safely. This involves shutting the door on the chicken coop after the chickens have gone in to roost, and other similar tasks.
Bruce generally takes care of the animals toward the back of the property and I handle the ones toward the front. Tonight however, Bruce was late getting home from work due to the copious amounts of snow clogging the roadways, so I set out on my own to "make the rounds."
I am quite capable of making solo rounds and, in fact, I do it quite often. Tonight however as the sun began to set the temperature dropped extremely fast causing the 16 or so inches of snow to ice over. I noted the sudden change and dressed appropriately. By the time I left the house I was wearing a shirt, a sweatshirt, a long sleeved jacket, a pair of jeans, a scarf, mittens, a hat, 2 pairs of socks and Bruce's big rubber boots. I could barely walk but I was warm. There are times when making a fashion statement is really not important.
The ground had become a solid sheet of ice by then, so I was taking little baby steps. About half way out to the chicken shed I realized that rubber boots were not the best choice for walking on ice. I was slipping so much that it began to feel like I was on a treadmill going nowhere.
My eyes were focused on my feet and the ground under them as I took each carefully executed step. I have no idea how I thought that might help, but that's where my focus was.
As I rounded the corner of a fenced in area, I reached out to take hold of the corner post. Before my hand was able to connect with the post I heard a loud wheezy snort that came from just around the big wooden post. I jerked my head up so quickly that it caused me feet to slip out from under me.
Now when you meet up with something that snorts at you on a cold dark winters night, you'd like to be able to make some choices as to how you are going to handle the inevitable encounter. Sadly, I wasn't given that freedom of choice. I was flat on my back. The more I struggled under the 100 pounds of excess clothing the more I slipped. I began to gasp, snort and whine.
I knew I was at deaths door. The first thing that came to mind was "bear" because we have been having routine visits from a rather imposing hulk of a black bear. The second thing that came to mind was that our bull must have broken out of his pen. The final thing that came to mind was that I was about to die wearing a hideous outfit, maybe fashion does count.
The snorts continued and seemd to be getting even louder and closer. I could see puffs of hot breath swirling around the corner of the post. Finally I was able to grab hold of the post and roll myself over. That tidy maneuver put me nose to nose with my snorting attacker. It wasn't a bear or a bull, it was very large and very frighted white tailed buck deer. He was monstrously large! From my perspective he looked the size of an elk. I swear his antlers were 10 feet across. You might think is an exaggeration, but he was big and so were his horns. Of course they say that people at the scene of a crime or accident tend to overstate the circumstances. Maybe.
It's fair to say he scared me nearly to death. It's also fair to say I scared him nearly to death. Neither of us could get a good foot hold on the icy surface. His back legs were sprawled out behind him and so were mine. We both flailed , snorted, and grunted.
Finally he was able to get his feet under him and in one big thrust, he flew over the top of me and disappeared into the darkness. After a minute I was able to gain my composure and get to my feet.
About that time Bruce pulled into the driveway and yelled "Hey did you see that giant buck? Wow what a beauty! Amazing ! Awesome! ..Did you see him..Wow!"
It was a guy thing, and I didn't want to spoil the magic of his moment so I shook my head and quietly said "no, was there a buck in here?" Then I walked slowly and carefully back to the house humming "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer."
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