No Horses on the Place

Dear Sara Hagedorn C.,

(And all readers of the Chronicles, but Sara's the one who scolded...)

When I married the Farmer, it was made abundantly and emphatically clear that there would be NO HORSES ON THE PLACE.  It was a big point, because I grew up riding and my dad still uses horses every day on his place, and the family I married into were not horse-y at all. In fact, horses were looked on as a waste of time, feed, and an endless moneypit; four wheelers were much more efficient and besides, they don't scare the cows. I do respect that. Our pastures here at Lang's Fork are very large and easily covered on a four wheeler. Where I grew up, wheelers would be pointless as the country is much tougher, the hills not easy but mean, rough gumbo.  There's a place for everything.

And then we had Maggie. 

Now, I'm not overstating the thing when I say that little girls are born with a horse-compass. Early in their lives, almost all of them are drawn to horses.  They read horse books (thank you Marguerite Henry for so many). Their walls are covered with pictures from calendars and magazines of horses. One will find My Little Pony growing into Breyer toy horses as they grow. But at some point will come the inevitable question....

You know what it is, don't you?

"Can I have a horse?"

In our case, I'm happy to say it was because she spent happy times horseback at Cowboy PopPop's, from the time she was three months old, really. My dad and Grammy Karen have made a point of taking the time to get all their grandkids on horses as early and often as possible. So besides the "nature" of genetic horse-love, there was also the "nurture". 

When Maggie asked us, we told her that if she wanted a horse she'd have to earn the money and buy it herself. This was going to take some time and a lot of work on her part. By the time she had earned enough for a horse, perhaps PopPops Vern would have retired to a nice little house in Miles City and wouldn't have heart palpitations over the whole deal. 

What we did NOT take into consideration, however, was how very determined and focused our daughter would be in this endeavor. 

From that point on, all her birthday and Christmas money went in a bright yellow Whitman's chocolate box decorated with horses in her drawer. When she won premium money at the county fair, into the box it went. She rode for a week to help her Cowboy PopPops and her wages were proudly deposited in the Horse Fund. Any spare bit of change, any quarters found on the street....into the box for her horse. She raised a bum calf, bought a heifer from the sale of it, sold the heifer when she was dry on the third year and had money from that for a horse.

Maggie would watch her brother spending his birthday money on LEGOs and candy and whatever else caught his fancy, but held tight to her purse strings with this goal of having her own horse someday. I'm getting a little teary as I type this because as I watched this for three years, I hope hope hoped it would not be in vain, that her persistent belief and work would not go unrewarded. 

So many dreams DO crash, you know.

So many things in life turn out to be disappointments and empty promises. 

I'm so very happy to write to you and tell you that her efforts did not go unrewarded. 

It turns out that my godson married a dear girl (okay, she's in her twenties but that's a girl to old people like me, right?) who is deeply involved in horses. She's a farrier and barrel-racer for goodness sake, and rode up the aisle in her wedding on her horse Boyfriend. 

We love her. 

She works for a woman who does hippotherapy which is NOT a rehab for chemically dependent hippos (you laugh, the world is a weird place nowadays, my friend) but a therapy with horses for those who are handicapped, veterans, traumatically injured in some way, children in struggling homes/settings. And through this work, she learned of a little 10 year old roan horse who needed a girl to love and care for. 

She knew we had just such a girl.

The owner had had CC from a colt, that she was green-broke but completely gentle, had never bucked in her life, and was in good shape except....

(There's always an "except", isn't there?)

Three years ago, she started seizing up when she was ridden more than five miles. Her muscles would grow tight and she was unable to get back home. This was quite inconvenient on a working ranch, as you might imagine, so she was turned out to pasture because the owner (bless her heart) had a toddler and a baby, a job in town, a ranching husband, and no time to baby a horse along even though she loved her dearly. She didn't want to send the mare to the canners but she couldn't sell her to anyone who would work her hard. And her price was $400. 

Maggie's calf money was in the bank, but her birthday/wages/premium money was in the Whitman's chocolate box. In three years she'd taken only $20 out of that box and her ready cash was $360. 

$360 of saving and working and sacrifice for her dream. 

Money in the back to support it.

It gives me GREAT pleasure and pride to introduce to you Maggie's horse CC's Apache Pride. (Yes, she's a papered quarterhorse.) Maggie calls her Pepper.

(This is before Maggie and my godson's wife went over her with brushes, combs and such, so she looks a little tough. Not a high maintenance girl at all.)

Pepper is a very calm, good-natured horse when she's around people, but apparently quite overbearing and bossy with other horses. Think "oldest sister who has to have it her way all the time". Maggie and I SO get that. We're not proud of it, but we get it.  

We are keeping her at Destanie and Jason's house (my godson and his wife) for a couple months until we get a good place fenced off next to our house for her, so essentially she's NOT on the place.  We haven't really broken any rules yet. Destanie and Maggie work with her together and D has been working with her when we aren't there to try to get her into shape.  

We think Pepper has a condition called Polysaccharide Storage Myopathy, which is basically a genetic thing that runs through quarterhorses and draft horses which makes them sensitive to starch and sugars in their diets and requires daily exercise to keep them limber, as well as very clean diets and vitamin supplements. We're working on figuring out how best to feed and work her, but other than that she's a darling horse who craves human company.

I haven't gotten many pictures of Maggie and Pepper because I babysit my (perfect) grand god-son the little Toot while Maggie and Destanie work with her. I'll put some of the pictures I DO have here in the post.

I've been hesitant to write this post, even though it's a joyous event in OUR house, because I didn't want it to seem as though we were rubbing it in, flaunting the breaking of the cardinal rule. It is SO not that way.

I'm sharing this story because one of my best friends is so excited about this life step for Maggie.

So, Sara, this is for you.

I know you've been checking and are beside yourself with happy anticipation for this post.

Thank you for waiting and nudging when you couldn't help yourself any more!

Now, more Pepper!

This is the first moment they met.

I want to tell you that it took about 30 hours for Maggie to come to the realization that Pepper was HER HORSE.

She didn't have to give her back, share her with 10 cousins, not see her for months....this precious horse was the fruition of her efforts and hard work, this horse was HERS. (You'll note the halter. We realized we didn't have ANY tack when the Farmer went to town to pick Pepper up, so he said he'd buy one. Maggie immediately said, "The cheapest one, Dad. Don't buy anything expensive.")

They look like sisters, don't they?
Pepper was so calm for being in a new place.  Destanie checked all her feet and looked at her teeth without any objection from Pepper. This was very good, considering Pepper had been out to pasture for three years.

Here you go, girlfriend; here's your horse!

They're pretty together, aren't they?

My two favorite boys in all the world, Angus and little Toot! They were very good sports about the whole deal.

A little action while the silly girls made goo-goo eyes at a HORSE....

So there it is.

The story of how a little girl earned her horse, how prayers were answered, how lives change as we grow and have children of our own.

(Cowboy PopPops is VERY happy about the whole mess, PopPops Vern much less so. But you know what? That's alright. This IS life. Even if Maggie only has her horse for a couple years, the lesson of working hard and saving for what you want will stay with her. The memory and story of buying her first horse will be the foundation for her parenting wisdom for her OWN children. It's not just about getting Pepper. There are bigger, more lasting "morals" that come from this. And THAT'S what I'm really happy about.)

(Although, I have to tell you....it's so good to smell horse on our clothes and hands, to have the luxury of one of our own.)

With sincere apologies for the delay of the story, Sara,

The Farmer's Wife

Spread The Love

Do you remember my frienemy Willa McGillicuddy? 

She's been going through a challenging time lately so I mailed her a little package containing an extra copy of War and Peace that I had mistakenly bought and a bottle of Montana wine, among other things. (Because, you know....nothing says "Cheer up, syrup!" like War and Peace.)

Before I sealed and posted it, there was a liberal sprinkling of teeny foil hearts that I keep on hand for such occasions. 

WELL.

The package made it to its destination in record time and from the moment she opened it, itty-bitty little hearts started planting themselves like dandelion seeds everywhere. As Willa finds them, she takes a photo and sends it to me.  So far, they've been recorded in bed sheets, on the bottom of a foot, on her shoulder at work,  and in the DRIVEWAY for goodness sake! She may be finding them elsewhere but these are the recordable sightings. 

Both of us are delighted! And who wouldn't be?! There's a reminder of being dearly loved that pops up at unexpected times and shines as hard as it possibly can! Willa knows she's loved and I know she knows she's loved. How beautiful...

This brings me to the deep meaningful portion of the post.

Come ON. 

You saw it coming.

Even so....keep reading....

In the dark, cold days of winter it's pretty easy to isolate oneself, to begin thinking dark thoughts, to ferment the ugly ideas that one is not significant or worth being loved. The frigid weather seems to freeze the spirit, too. Blessings are lost as well as perspective. 

Does it not feel as though it will be January forever? That June is a figment of your imagination? 

My frienemy, Willa, lives in Florida so she doesn't really get the cold, dark, lonely thing but she DOES get a winter of the spirit. We all do, whether we wish to admit it or not. And it's then that we need to look for the little foil hearts, the wee shining manifestations of love that are with us always, whether we know it or not.  

Love is not the big showy spectacle that society and media flashes in our faces.

It's the little shiny things we step on and don't notice, that we sweep off our days and never think twice about. 

How much love are we missing? 

Daily!

Minute to minute, really.

Willa can't help but think about it. It keep sparkling in her life, on her very being, and in her path when she goes to get the mail or on her desk when she works.

I'm thinking more about it too.

I do love Willa and I pray for her daily, but I didn't realize the impact for both of us. 

Kenny Chesney sings a Jamaican style song that says this in the lyrics:

"We've got to spread the love, spread the love, all over the world...

All God's people got to spread the love, spread the love, all over the world..."

Let's do that.

Even if it's little foil hearts.

The Farmer's Wife Abroad {Part 3}

 I'm not going to tell ALL the Newark Airport stories, because you'd completely lose interest in my whole trip and abandon the Chronicles for the Pioneer Woman's blog. Someday, though, you need to hear the story of Luis the Mexican janitor and also of the mysterious setting up of a stage through out the night by many different characters, none of whom seemed to have any knowledge or connection with any of the others. And the complicated ordering/payment/pickup experience of ordering a simple, generic $12 breakfast sandwich at 5 a.m....modern convenience and technology gone TERRIBLY wrong.

It's astonishing, really, what stories one observes when there is no other entertainment at 3 a.m. in hell.  I mean, Newark.


After several gate changes throughout the night and early morning, we finally departed at sunrise....six people from Montana that looked like we'd just pulled in from a four day commute on a Greyhound bus. We boarded amidst a full cabin load of happy, excited, WELL RESTED AND FED scuba diver groups who were chattering and laughing with their cute little carry on luggage and clean tee shirts.  I wanted to hate them, but I didn't have the energy.

Fortunately, the illicit coffee had kicked in enough for me to realize that we were taking off near the Statue of Liberty!  There she was...right out my window! (At least, I THINK it was the Statue of Liberty.  I HOPE it was the Statue of Liberty, because then another life goal would have been met, along with having and using a passport.)

 Upon boarding the plane Doc, Jenny, David and Yulena went promptly to sleep. This is a terrible phone picture of about halfway through the 4 1/2 hour flight from Bonaire to Newark. It was pretty much how everyone (except the fresh scuba groups) made the flight.
Except me.  I couldn't sleep for anything.  I was flying over the ocean!  To a foreign island!  Where they promised me there would be flamingos!

I cried when we finally made the final descent and I saw Bonaire for the first time.

I made it to the island.

(In retrospect, I know it was weariness and relief, but at that moment it seemed quite sentimental...)

The Bonaire Flamingo Airport is no-frills.  

It's a good introduction to the island.

Bonaire itself is a no-frills place. Nothing fancy. No one has the opportunity or means to get too big for their britches here. 

We walked directly out of the airplane into the hazy, moist heat.  

Got ourselves down the stairs attached to the plane.

Began the longish march to the airport, wondering to ourselves whose bag would be the one sent to the Netherlands mistakenly, because one bag is ALWAYS lost. 

Guess what?
The Flamingo Airport really and truly is charmingly painted pink! (This picture is all tippy because I was trying to take a photo without impeding traffic while balancing an overloaded carry on and purse.)

 Even the tile walkway is pink!

"Bon bini na Bonaire" is the Papiamentu phrasing.  Papiamentu is a sort of Creole-y language that's really only heard on Aruba, Bonaire, and Curacao.  It's a crazy corruption and integration of all the languages of all the nationalities who have "owned" the island through the years.  (The airport is a converted military building as it turns out.  They're currently building a NEW airport to accommodate the number of flights that are coming in, growing every year.)

The flamingo...right before I got the stamp in my passport book. (The stamp ALSO had a flamingo on it.  We were veritably wallowing in flamingos. It was glorious.)

All the bags made it!

Miraculous!

The Villa Lunt caretaker, Marc (who Ivan believes is distantly related to Luis the Mexican airport custodian) met us with rental cars and led us through Kralendijk to our home for the week.

(Marc is his own post.)

To be continued....

The Farmer's Wife Abroad {Part 2}

If you look at a map of the routes United Airlines flies, and imagine taking a flight from Denver to Newark, it seems a pretty straightforward path.  See Example A:

But it turns out, NOBODY WANTS TO GO TO NEWARK. (This is the potential title of a book made up of dreadful travel stories that may be compiled at a future date.)

It took us for stinkin' ever just to get out of the Denver airport. 

The baggage was slow being loaded. 

There were passengers from a connecting flight that we needed to wait for.

There were other planes in front of us.

The pilot forgot to brush his teeth, so had to exit the plane to do so. 

(Not really, but it was starting to seem that that sort of thing was happening)

When we finally DID get out of Denver, the sun was beginning to set behind the Flatirons and this was the view from my seat...

(I know. There will be die-hard Denver Broncos fans that will point out the colors of the sunset match their team colors...blah, blah, blah. Years past I would be able to say something in retaliation like "Yeah, but just just like the sun, your team is going DOWN."  Not this year. *sniffle*)

Now then.

Back to the flight.

Look at the map one more time and trace with your finger the route from Denver to Newark.

Did you happen to go through Canada or over any of the Great Lakes?

No?

Well, WE did. 

I can only assume the pilots were trying to end up in Quebec instead of Newark because

NOBODY WANTS TO GO TO NEWARK. 

And I'll tell you why.

(You knew I would, didn't you?)

The Newark Airport is some sort of crazy, discombobulating, scuzzy, coffee-less/food-less/soul-less landing place after 11 p.m. until 5 a.m. the next day.  

We straggled off our "international" flight from Denver around 11:30 p.m., EST. There were about 3 stores or eateries open, but no one really felt like eating 8 hour old pizza. (Except Doc, and he got a screaming deal on it.) 

As Jenny found a place to nest with the kids and charge various devices, Ivan and I headed to have a glass of wine at the one likely place, Oeno Wine Bar. The only reason it was still open, I discovered after ordering a $15 glass of Chardonnay, was because of the MLB World Series playoff game between the LA Dodgers and New York Mets.

(Incidentally, the Mets won, 3-1, in which case the three Mets fans stood up, stretched, exited the joint and the lights started dimming.)

(But SERIOUSLY...who goes to a WINE BAR to watch baseball??? It would be like going to a steak house to watch opera. It can be done, but probably shouldn't be.)

So that was midnight. 

We only had nine hours to go before our flight left for Bonaire!

Nine of the longest hours of my life.

Don't tell my mom this (because she'll react as though someone just called a 23-19), but...

I slept on the nasty floor in a corner of one of the seating areas, with my head on my purse and my sarong for a blanket. It was only for maybe 20 minutes...long enough to get chilled to the core and want a cup of coffee desperately.

There's no coffee to be had in the Newark Airport at 2 a.m. 

I don't care if you're Batman or the Queen of England or Tom Brady, you won't be getting coffee.

You'll get lots of things....like "lost", "dirty looks", or "ignored", but you won't get coffee. 

(Ivan and I set off on a grand discovery tour around the concourse and got all those things. At one point, we encountered a custodian with a piping hot cup of fresh coffee. I asked him in a quavery, desperate voice where he'd managed to find it and he gestured toward the window..."Out thay-ah. Sorry."  Also, I think we may have set off an alarm in a weird, open kiosk that didn't look like a kiosk, but we'll never know.)

Finally (and this is by now only three and a half hours into a nine hour layover), a kid in a black hooded sweatshirt who was hanging around the central food court asked Ivan if we needed anything. Ivan replied rather hopelessly and glumly that we were seeking coffee and the kid said "I'll get you some."

(I'd like to say at this juncture that I believe in angels from God, and I believe this young man was one of them.)

As we were following him through the maze of stands, a rather stout black woman  pushing an empty (as it would turn out) coffee canister stopped our young savior and asked where he was going. He told her he was fetching us coffee, and she said something to the effect of "Ain't no damned coffee made 'til 5, fool." to which he said, "Yes there is. I made some."  I got the distinct impression that this was not his job or place, but like I said, I'm pretty sure he was an angel sent for me. (Because Ivan doesn't drink coffee, you see. He was just in it for the active distraction from sitting in the waiting area for 9 hours.)

Black Hoody led us to a closed coffee stand, went behind the counter, grabbed a big cardboard cup and asked if I wanted regular or decaf.  I almost wept with gratitude. 

"Regular, PLEASE and thank you so very, very much!" 

"No problem."

After he handed me the gorgeous beverage, I asked how much and he said, "I'll be right back" and vanished into the maze of stands again. 

So there I was, standing next to the counter with my contraband cup of joe when another traveler with the same haunted, hungry eyes approached and asked where I'd managed to get the life-giving elixir. I gestured with my head to the other side of the counter, "Back there. Some guy got it for me and now I'm waiting to pay him." 

The traveler said, "Where is he?!? Where did he go?!?!"

"I don't know!"was the truthful reply.

"They said there was no coffee until 5 a.m.!!!"

"I know."

"But YOU have coffee!"

Indeed. 

(Dear reader, you may be thinking that the Christian thing to do in this moment would be to grab another cup and split the booty with the other desperate traveler, but I will confess that although the thought flitted through my mind, I immediately and selfishly rebuked it, hoping my Newark story would not include being mugged for 10 ounces of caffeine that may or may not have been stolen. Let him find his own angel in a black hoody. Or something.)

After a short time, the other traveler gave up and left the scene. Moments later, Black Hoody angel reappeared, said "I got the code. Follow me." which I did unthinkingly. He led me about 10 paces to a pay kiosk, entered the super secret pass code (I should have paid more attention to THAT), took my 5 bucks, deposited it, carefully retrieved the 50 cents in change and handed it back to me. 

"Thank you. Thank you SO MUCH! I can't tell you how much I appreciate this!"

"No problem."

And he vanished into the airport. 

The Farmer's Wife Abroad {Part 1}

October 9, 2015

A large part of adventure and travel is discomfort.  

No one ever tells stories of easy flights, acceptable food, or calm touring. It's always the nine hour layovers in Newark, roaches on the wall of the villa, or bumpers being torn off the rental car that get the air or page time, right?  This travel adventure of mine is no exception.  

And on that cautionary note, we begin.

I'm going to skip the whole check in the airport in Billings, flight to Denver in 45 minutes part.  There's absolutely nothing remarkable or interesting about any of it, except to say that my traveling companions had twice the luggage I did, being scuba divers who were spending a week on a Caribbean island.  

I was traveling with Ivan and Jenny Jasper, their two kids David and Yulena (twins, age 10), and a gentleman I only ever knew as "Doc" who was a family doctor from Sheridan WY. (Truly, I never did find out his last or given name. Ivan seemed to think he looked like a tall Ernest Hemingway, but I didn't see that resemblance. He certainly wasn't as rough as Hemingway, and his sentences were much longer.) 

We had what seemed a longish layover in Denver, but in reality it was a just-right layover...enough time to buy a good snack, stretch our legs, and regroup before flying on to Newark.  Even so, I couldn't take much of the sitting and waiting, so I told the others I was going for a stroll to stretch my legs and took off down the concourse. 

At the end of the concourse, rounding the corner just ahead of me, was an elderly lady in very classy clothes, taking her carry on and purse for a walk on an airport cart.  I still have not learned the traveling rule that one does not talk to just everyone one encounters on the journey, so as I rounded the concourse and was about to pass her, I said, "Are you talking a walk for exercise?" (being concerned that perhaps she needed help across the airport and having time to do so).  Why, yes, she WAS, although she was a bit embarrassed to be caught with what looked like a walker. I confessed that I was stretching my legs as well and asked if we could share a few yards as it's much better to walk with someone in that sort of place.  

We exchanged the usual pleasantries and I asked where she was bound. 

"Boston, Mass. to visit my old friend who is house bound, now." 

I was so tickled that I stopped walking and nearly did a happy dance!  

"That's my favorite city! I love Boston!", I exclaimed. 

"What do you love about it, dear?", she queried, quite interested in my response.

Well, we really didn't have the time for all that I love about Boston, but I quickly rolled through Fenway and the Red Sox, the Museum of Fine Arts, seafood twice a day, Engine 8 Ladder 1, the Freedom Trail, Make Way for Ducklings....

When I took a breath, she laughed and revealed to me that she'd grown up in Boston (well, NEAR Boston, in Quincy) and that she loved many of the same things. 

As we walked and visited, she asked where my destination was on MY trip and I told her I was going to Bonaire to cook for scuba divers.  At that, SHE stopped walking and nearly did a happy dance....she had been a scuba diver back when scuba diving wasn't all that popular, in the 1950s.  In fact, when she was on a trip with one of her pals, she'd gone snorkeling and sent her husband-to-be a telegram informing him of this thrilling activity; he was concerned and asked everyone in his office if this was a decent thing for a young woman to be doing, as he had no idea what the word even meant! 

By the end of our little encounter, I had a new friend.  If I'm ever in Cheyenne, WY, I'm to look up and stay with Mrs. Joanie H.  We must report back on our trips over coffee.  (I need to do it soon, though, because she's 93 and only has about 10 more years of good health, according to her.  This is quite true, and I must tell you that I almost fell over at the revelation of her age.  She LOOKS about 75, I promise you, and shows no signs of allowing Father Time to place speed bumps on her current path.) We said our goodbyes, bade each other safe travels, and reluctantly parted ways.  I wish now that I'd taken her photo.  

As I boarded the plane for Newark, I thought to myself that I wanted to remember that someday I'd be telling MY life adventures and stories to people who came to visit me in the nursing or retirement home, or to whippersnappers in the airport, and I need to live a life worth telling.  

"I just KNEW your house was magical!"

This was the statement my friend Amber exclaimed yesterday as she and her kids visited us for the first time.

Now, my house is a lot of things....dusty, rather cluttered at times, quirky, warm, small....but it has never once occurred to me that it's in any way magical!

As I picked up and puttered around this morning, I tried to think of what might make it magical.

Perhaps it was the fact that she was greeted at the door by a pirate who was heartily informing the visitors of maps and buried treasure in our yard.

Maybe it was the sparkly pink flamingo sunglasses resting next to the tiara adorned teapot.

Or the conversation over the lunch table sincerely examining the feeding habits of foot trolls.

The dragon pictures scattered about the house?

Our dogs' thoughts that are narrated by everyone in the family, as though translating for a foreign cousin who wants to participate but doesn't know the language?

The coconut happily hanging out with the homegrown tomatoes on the counter?

Or maybe it's the dust bunnies with cardboard box houses that the kids created...

I don't know.
Maybe it's not magical, it's just "crazy" and she was politely reluctant to use that particular word, bless her heart!
But she mentioned the magic more than once, so something struck her deeply (besides the garlic in the pizza...).

I would hope that some of the magic would be how delighted we are to have guests, how they feel loved and appreciated, that the hugs we greet them with are genuine and deep.
I hope some of the magic in our home is the humor and safety to discuss any and everything, no matter how frivolous or deeply difficult.
If only some of the magic here is the wonder of being surrounded by a library's worth of good books and the beautiful art of my talented friends and family!

My greatest wish though, is that the true magic of our house is love.

Confession #753

Here it goes....

I have a frienemy.

Well, actually I have more than one, and in this case frienemies beget frienemies...quite literally!

I've tried to untangle the crazy way we became frienemies, but I really can't. All I can say is that Patsy Clairmont was involved, I fell hard for a frog picture, we started following each other's blogs, then became friends on Facebook, then ended up in a fantasy football league together.  And THAT'S when I became frienemies with the one I'm writing about in this post. I'll call her *Willa McGillicuddy to protect reputations. Her mom, Labelle McGillicuddy was my original frienemy, the one with the frog picture. (It's absolutely perfect. You'd be smitten, too.) 

Anyway, long story only a little tiny bit shorter...

We discovered we had a shared love of baseball! 

Except, here's the kicker (and this is where it becomes shameful on my part):

 they're a Yankees family.

(You can see why I'd change names to protect everyone.)

THAT'S what made us frienemies. 

The Yankees (for those who don't know or care about major league baseball) are the sworn mortal enemies of the Red Sox from the origin of the sport, basically. I'm not going to delve into the history of the rivalry because that would start a brawl here on the Chronicles and that's not the point of the post. The point is that enemies can become friends and still remain enemies. Frienemies.


My frienemy, Willa, lives near where the Red Sox hold their spring training and preseason games. As my luck would have it and hers would fail, she has a friend with connections to the Red Sox. There were tickets in the family box of one of the games bestowed from a player, she asked Willa to accompany her...putting Willa in a painful dilemma.

Should she participate in this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to shmooze with MLB players of the sworn villainous team, thereby almost ensuring bad luck in the upcoming season for HER team? Or politely decline, knowing in her heart that she was a loyal 3 generation fan and kicking herself all the way to the nursing home when her children's children asked her "WHY, Gramma? WHY did you give up that opportunity?!"

It was impossible!
Poor Willa!

In the end, she did the right thing.
She grabbed a couple balls and a Sharpie marker, and went to the game.

Willa sent me one of the signed balls....the LUCKY BALL...and now I'm going to share photos of it with you. (This is a rare opportunity. The LUCKY BALL doesn't make public appearances as a rule.)

 The first signature, and the one with the most importance to the story of the LUCKY BALL is that of Xander Bogaerts (#2)

(Photo from Yahoo)

You can look up all his stats (this year they're stinking good), but he's the one who gave Willa's friend the tickets. 

The best part about his signature is that it's right above the "Made in China" stamp on the ball. 

It's so dear and naive, and I smile every time I see that. 

This sideways signature is Brock Holt (#26)...Brockstar. 

Photo from MLB

He's got great hair.

And he's ALSO a rising star this year! (Part of the reason I call it LUCKY BALL despite the Red Sox having a rather stinky season is because those who signed it seem to be having a lucky year. It's like they were blessed by the selfless, brave choice Willa made.)

 This is precious.

It's a signature by Luis Tiant (bottom). He was one of the greatest Red Sox pitchers of all time. 

Photo courtesy MLB

He's a legend, Red Sox Hall of Fame...hot stuff.

I'm not worthy.

Directly over the top is the signature of Anthony Varvarro, pitcher on the disabled list of the Red Sox roster.

Now, THAT was intriguing to me.

So I asked Willa who signed the ball first.

I couldn't imagine the moxy of a guy (especially a PITCHER) who would sign his name above El Tiante's signature...the arrogance!

Tiant signed the ball after Varvarro, robbing me of the thought.

And Varvarro's the only guy I haven't figured out if luck is holding for him this year.

Finally, John Farrell's signature.

Photo courtesy Zimbio

He's the manager of the team who is currently on the DL, I guess, with lymphoma cancer.  And for a while I wondered if the LUCKY BALL had failed him.

But actually, the cancer was discovered in a routine surgery for a hernia, so it really WAS lucky.

 LUCKY BALL sits on the shelf above my sink, next to my tiara, flamingo sunglasses, SF 49ers helmet decal, and notes from friends. (And frienemies!)

As a followup on Willa....
She's in counselling.

NOT REALLY!
Willa is still a very loyal Yankees fan, but she does keep track of certain Red Sox players now, having met them and all.  Her friend is still able to get tickets to games, so they're going to another one in a week or two. (You should also know that her friend doesn't care about baseball at all. It's a darned shame, and we chew on that quite a lot.)

Willa's mother, Labelle, continues to be my frienemy, too, but she says that Willa "stole" me from her. Just because we text daily. All I know is that I love them both and they'll just have to work that out on their own.

I hold dreams of going to "Fenway South" someday for spring training, but it's smack in the middle of calving season so that doesn't look imminent unless I win the lottery. (Which I'd have to actually play to win.)

So ends the confession.
I hope we can still be friends.
At the very least....if you're a Yankees fan....frienemies.

VetGun

See this?
It's like a paintball gun that can be used to apply insecticide to livestock.
Looks like fun, doesn't it?

IT IS!!!!!

The Farmer picked one up in Miles last night so we could dose the bulls without having to gather them and bring them into the corral, since the flies are so bad this year and it looks as though we'll be dosing more frequently. I've been campaigning for a VetGun for quite a while now, mostly so I can shoot the bulls I hate and not get in trouble for doing it.

This afternoon, we went out and I "dosed" five bulls.
It was indescribably satisfying to point the gun at their big old sides, pull the trigger (WHUMP), and see the SPLAT.  They jumped a little, but then turned and looked at us with very hurt feelings..."Why would you SHOOT me?!" If bulls could pout, they'd be sticking out their bottom lips, acting all abused and betrayed.

I tried to talk the Farmer into doing two doses per bull, since they're so much bigger than cows and obviously need more insecticide to be effective, but he limited me to one each.
I guess....if it turns out they need more, I'll just have to go back and shoot them again...

People talk about "the good old days", but I'm quite certain my grandfathers would have loved this little invention.

Escoffier

Auguste Escoffier.

His name means absolutely nothing to most people I know, it's a complete conversation killer in most social settings. I have no idea what reaction it might provoke in Europe or New York, but here in the Big Sky country it's completely unknown. Ironically, the way I came to find out about one of the most influential French chefs in history was through a book written by a young man living in Miles City at the time of press, another unfairly under-read piece of writing called "The Scavenger's Guide to Haute Cuisine".  

Steven Rinella grew up in Michigan, but ended up living in Miles City because his brother lived there, working for the State Fish and Game. Along the course of his life, a friend gave him a copy of Le Guide Culinaire, Auguste Escoffier's definitive (and massive) guide to French cooking. As he read through it, he developed a plan to make a three day feast of Escoffier recipes made as entirely as he could from ingredients he procured by hunting, fishing, and gathering.  Things like eels. And baby pigeons (which he managed to capture from nests behind the 600 Cafe).  I highly recommend "The Scavenger's Guide..." to anyone interested in travel, wildlife, cooking, hunting, fishing, culture, and Montana. 

As Rinella wrote through the process of his feast, he also wrote about Auguste Escoffier who was fascinating to me.  His name alone was magnificent to say, pronounced "Ah-GOOST Es-KOFE-ee-AY"....go ahead, try it out!....but his artistry with food was stunning.  I learned that he prepared dishes for royalty, one of which really and truly was "four and twenty blackbirds, baked in a pie; when the pie was opened, the birds began to sing".  I've always thought that the birds beginning to sing was a figurative way to say the pie was sublime in taste, but it turns out he really DID have live birds in there.  Escoffier baked a blackbird pie (and yes, in those days they used songbirds as meat, though I can't begin to think how many it would take to get a decent pot pie together), then baked a separate faux crust which he used to entrap the four and twenty REAL blackbirds.  Imagine, then, when the faux crust was cut and the birds were released! I assume the real pie had been covered with layers of cloth so that it would not be contaminated, but the idea of that sort of dish...what flair and ingenuity! 

You can see why I was entranced.

About a month ago, I was browsing the books at our Miles City thrift store St. Vincent de Paul, when I came across a most unusual title (for our area of the world): Auguste Escoffier, Memories of My Life.  I almost squealed out loud!  His autobiography!  In hard cover! It turns out his great grand-daughter-in-law had inherited Escoffier's notes, letters, menus, and an autobiography he'd written but that had never been taken note of or considered for publication.  By the time he'd died (in 1935), no one was interested in old turn of the century French chefs; the world was recovering from the first World War, on the precipice of the second, and there were other worries and ideas that took precedence.  Laurence Escoffier, however, had the good sense to translate his writings, go through the photographs and menus, and publish the best and most interesting in this book.

It was richness, to read in Escoffier's own words, from his own viewpoint, about how he'd developed as a chef.  He started out watching his grandmothers in the kitchen, and the very first thing he ever made was coffee, which at that time was rare and precious, a treat saved for special occasions.  It turned out brilliantly, and he was scolded as well as praised. 

The book contained photographs of his family, the places that were significant in his life, descriptions of people he rubbed shoulders with through his career (a who's-who of world leaders and artists), but most wonderfully....the menus and some recipes.  

Escoffier was famous not only for the brilliance of his dishes and the ingredients he put together, but for the way he was able to build menus that suited the occasion, guests, season, and period.  In his autobiography, he explains some of the menus and how he decided what should be served.  As someone who loves to cook for people (and eat), I took careful note of his thought process and consideration of what was in season.  The menus themselves were literal works of art, and along with being fun to read and imagine, they were gorgeous to look at.  

In his autobiography, Escoffier includes the recipes for Poularde Edouard VII and five other dishes on this menu which was for a fete to celebrate the coronation of England's Prince Edward VII.  The recipes assume the cook is as experienced as he, so while they're very specific about ingredients ("Choose perfectly ripe white peaches."), the processes are not explained in detail ("Place the peaches in a timbale containing a layer of vanilla ice cream covered with a strawberry puree'."). 

Last week, in the same thrift store, I found ANOTHER book about Escoffier, which I'm assuming was donated by the same person who'd left the autobiography.  This book, The World of Escoffier, is more about the culture and people of the time period and less about Escoffier himself.  No matter, it's beautifully done and adds to the picture I have in my head of his lifestyle. 

I'm hoping, hoping, hoping that same donor will casually drop off a copy of Le Guide Culinaire (pronounced "Lay GHEED Coo-linn-AIR").  I'd have to bring it home, place it next to Les Miserable, train a spotlight on it, and show everyone who comes in the door. 

Now you know a tiny bit about Auguste Escoffier...in the unlikely event his name comes up at a cocktail party or book club, you will not be completely ignorant of the man! And if you're in the least bit interested in French culture and cuisine, specifically at the turn of the century (1900s) in Europe, you'll enjoy his autobiography.  

Grand Godbaby

I have one, you know.
And he's the most perfect little piece of humanity!

His grandparents and I have been friends for 30 years. When I married the Farmer, we became legitimate family while we'd always FELT like family, anyway.  They're Pluhars, too! (This caused some confusion with my godson: "Am I your god cousin, now?" Tricky stuff.) For the first years of their marriage and my college, I practically lived with them....poor kids....and Jason, my godson, was our favorite entertainment most of the time.

Well, we all grew up, somehow, and Jason married a dear girl named Destanie; we laughed and cried and danced at their wedding two years ago. And they had a dear, dear baby this spring. They're kindly letting me be a grand godmother, and IT IS THE BEST THING.

Oh, my goodness....I get those "first date" tummy tickles when I know I get to see him...for reals! And I can't put him down when they let me hold him.
We won't even talk about how many smooches are expertly placed on his little head.

Here are pictures from yesterday. I got to spend the afternoon with my best friend, her grandson, and his great grandma...it was so good!

I understand, now, how grandparents can be just crazy for their grandkids...

All the fun, none of the responsibility! 

Shower Day

Today I'm missing my friend.

The crazy thing is that I didn't realize we were friends until last night when we got the phone call telling us she was gone. 

It wasn't like her leaving was a huge surprise, really....she was 91 years old.  

Her body was 91 years old; a rather big affront to her 45 year old heart and mind. She was always sort of bewildered that her bones and skin had the nerve to age when she had so much to do, yet.  How dare nature pull such a dirty trick?! 

She broke her "good arm" after Thanksgiving and had to spend time in the nursing home in Jordan until January. Spending that much time with THOSE OLD PEOPLE just about killed her, then and there. We talked about that time frequently and it occurred to me that she really hadn't spent much time with elderly people! The oldest folks she fraternized with were her kids, who are now in their late 60s. And their kids...who are in their 40s. No wonder the old people got on her nerves...

She checked out of the nursing home the first week of January and that was when I had the privilege and joy of visiting her once or twice a week to help her shower and reach things in high places or accompany her to the forbidden basement to fetch canned goods. We had always had a funny relationship, built on the mutual respect and understanding of two girls raised in the country who married into the same ranching family, decades apart. Now, we had time and a good reason to visit about things we were both interested in, like cooking and ranching and gardening and family. 

And so a friendship grew.

It's such a vulnerable place, needing help with things like showers; especially for a strong, independent woman who still lived alone past 90 years of age...

We talked about how many people she'd taken care of in her lifetime and I tried to remind her that it was just coming back around for her. We also talked about the reality of her going back to that nursing home if she didn't accept a little help. That kept her on the straight and narrow, project-wise, although I always worried that she'd push it just a little too far some days.

But after showers and on the phone arranging the dates and times for such events, we chatted and clucked and laughed. We could tease each other and forget names of people we should know. She'd feed my kids weird cookies that she'd baked with almond/quinoa/rice flours, and questionable produce from the bottom of the crisper drawer, sending them home with funny, odd things she'd dug up from drawers....old pocketbooks and plastic toys. I came home with Prevention magazine and so many stories of the day. Never once did it feel like a "duty" or something I HAD to do. They were golden afternoons that ended with sincere hugs and "I love you"s; promises to see each other next week.  

I tell you this with tears running down my face that yesterday not only did our grandma (for the kids, their great-grandma) leave this old earth, but so did one of my dearest friends. Today was our designated shower day (on a weekend, so she could see the kids), and we are so lost. She died in her garden, in the spring sunshine, at home....right where she wanted to be.  While we're not sad about that...one of our biggest goals was that she could stay home until the end,,,we are already lonesome for her. It's going to be a very long week. It's been a very hard day. 

Grandma Edith taught me so much, but one of the biggest things was that friendship can grow anywhere, anytime, if you're willing to nurture it. (Ever the gardener, wasn't she?!) 

Also...and I'm glad I never had to confess this to her, but....quinoa flour biscotti are really and truly awful. Just use real wheat flour and white sugar. I'll smile every time I see her "modified" recipes in my files.  

The Hundred-Foot Journey

I've found it.
The PERFECT contemporary movie that is NOT produced by BBC.
(At least, I don't think it is...hmmm...)

It's PG, takes place in India and France, is about cooking, finding one's place in the world, applauding both ambition AND contentment. There are small town politics, family politics (don't pretend you don't know what that is, now), a hint at national politics, a whole lot of heart in all of that.
 Did I mention it's mostly set in France and involves cooking?
With Helen Mirrin, of all actresses!

I very rarely love a movie to the core...especially those made after 1965....but I bought this one.
Watch it!
Preferably with an omelette and glass of wine, fresh fruit and cheese close at hand.
If you cannot find it or don't want to purchase it, come to my house and watch it with me!
(Wine and omelette complimentary, of course.)

Oh, Baby!

I'm happy to announce the birth of Violet Jane's first calf, a bull baby named Chrysanthemum (called Chrys)! 

Isn't he one of the most perfect Angus calves you've ever seen?!

(Please excuse the lettering on the tag. I didn't do it, and am slightly appalled at the portrayal of the OC brand.)

His mother thinks he's the most perfect calf in the world, too, and she's concerned I might steal him out from under her pretty nose. Here she's checking to make sure he's safely hidden under the tree where she left him. (New mother cows are terrible at keeping secrets...)

Daisy also calved yesterday morning, but I haven't gotten a picture, yet.  She had a heifer who's named Buttercup. (Although you know she'll be referred to as Princess Buttercup like the heroine in The Princess Bride.)

Bull in the Bog

About a month ago, my friend Amber and I slipped away from our families (leaving them with frozen pizza and Netflix) to go to a Cowboy Poetry evening at the Range Riders Museum in Miles City.
I say "my friend Amber", but before that evening we were really just acquaintances at Cohagen community functions. She had bravely sent me a message, asking if perhaps I'd be interested in this sort of thing....not knowing if I was clinically crazy or anything...and I thought it would be fun, so we made the plan.

(I had no idea what to expect. I've never heard cowboy poetry. I've certainly heard colorful cowboy vocabulary, but not poetry...and that was accidental, because all the cowboys I have known are very respectful when there are women and children around.)

We had a great visit on the way to Miles City! That's 70 miles of "get to know you" windshield time, and by the time you get there, you'll have a pretty good idea if you'll be friends or not.  The really tricky thing is, if you're NOT, the same trip back home can seem like 100 miles...

It was pretty evident when we walked into the Range Riders that we were some of the youngest attendees there.  I would have to say the average age (conservatively) was around 67 years. There were a few more of us "youngsters" that came in, but all in all it was a fairly mature crowd, if you know what I mean.

Amber and I found seats right in the front row of tables, off to the side, so we could really see (and hear) all the action. (You know...because the term "cowboy poetry" is just ripe with the notion of commotion, right?)  We had coffee and continued visiting until the poets were assembled on stage and the MC got things going.

The first poet (I use that term sort of loosely in this case) was Wally Badgett.  I hesitate to try to describe him here because there really are no words that can do him justice. He's an old cowboy who has a local (Eastern Montana) reputation for big stories that have a vein of truth somewhere in them. The books he's written are very entertaining to those who know this, but would hardly be recommended as historical references to anyone anywhere else.  His first piece was about how the CBC company came to the area to gather range horses to send back east for dog food. My grandpa Everett Mosby rode with the CBC for a short time, so it really WAS interesting to me.

After a singer who did a couple Montana songs, Ann Secrest Hanson was up to the microphone.
If I couldn't do Wally Badgett justice in description, I'm completely speechless when it comes to Ann. Take a minute right now to read this very good biography on her. (Click on the red letters to go to the link).

You can see why I would be a little star struck...
I grew up hearing Ann Secrest stories, and was so hoping to get to meet her at the end of the evening.

She smiled a little, looked down at her papers and chuckled.
"I was looking out at the audience tonight and realized there were a lot of poems I couldn't read because people who know me too well are here. I saw you *pointed out at the crowd*, can't do this one. Or you *pointed at another*, can't do this one!"
She paused for a moment, then to my complete amazement said, "I don't suppose Billy Dutton is here tonight, is he?"
Well, sitting right there in the front row was his daughter, and I laughed and told her so...still astonished at the coincidence!
Ann took a good look at me and said, "You realize I've taken artistic liberty in some of my poems. Do you still want me to read this one about your father?"
Why, YES! Now, more than ever!

So I had the pleasure of hearing Ann Secrest (Hanson) read this poem she had written with my dad in it.

This is a copy she sent me in the mail, later, because.....this was the most thrilling part of the evening...when the program took a break for dinner, Ann came over to meet and visit with me! We talked about people we both knew, Cohagen, Jordan, poetry, North Dakota (where she now lives). The woman whose autograph I wanted pushed a piece of paper over and asked me for MY address, so she could send a copy of the poem to me when she got back home. (She wanted to copy it from the book because it had my Dad's picture on the book version.)
She even ate supper with us, which was such a treat, because I was able to ask her questions about her life, which she graciously answered with good humor.

When the poem came in the mail, a copy of the cover of the book was included, with a little note at the bottom that made me happy:

What an evening!

A new friend, a real live "hero" who wrote about my other real live hero, no cooking that night...

a gold star day for certain! 

I hope you enjoy the poem as much as I did.  

(One of the "artistic liberties" would have been making my Dad a stock inspector. I'm pretty sure he never was. He would have been equipped with ropes and gear, though, and he did chew Copenhagen at the time.)