To Live Deliberately

 

“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it has to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.”

I’m watching the Ken Burns PBS series about Thoreau. He has always been a hero of mine. 39 years ago I gave Rickie his book on Walden. If anyone could have lived happily like Thoreau, Rickie could have. And did in the time he got to spend at the ranch. Which was limited because he still had to work in the big city.

I was fortunate to spend 6 years living by myself in a little 464 sq ft cedar cabin on 54 acres. Three a half years when Rickie spent 2 full days and 4 half days there a month. On the weekends he drove out from Houston. Then I spent two and a half years alone after he died. 

I was a half mile from the nearest neighbor. I wasn’t a sociable person, still aren’t, so almost all of my days were spent with only the company of the longhorns Woodrow and Gus. And the wild turkeys, deer, foxes, jackrabbits and birds. I spent most of the days outside. Taking walks around our place, taking photos, writing sometimes in my blog about my life there. 

Like Thoreau, after Rickie died, I too wanted to see if I could live there by myself, remote from everything in a county made up of big ranches and small acreages like ours and a few tiny and tinier towns. It wasn’t a tourist county or town, not like Wimberly or Fredericksburg or Marble Falls. The visitors were mostly hunters. And most of them on deer leases at the big ranches. 

I wasn’t a country girl. I had lived in Houston close to 50 years and always lived in towns. Rickie was a country boy and I had learned enough from him to feel like I could  stay there. And I just wasn’t prepared to walk away from that life at that time. 

Later when I added on a bedroom and did so much of the work myself, I was also testing myself. To see what I could do on my own. My years at the ranch were spent on that. On hauling feed and hay for the longhorns and wildlife. Tending our garden. Planting flowers. Making repairs. Watching sunsets and the rare rainstorm. Studying the wildlife and how they lived. 

It was a simple life lived in the simplest way. Simple suppers of kale and cornbread or a pot of chili. A cold beer on the porch after a day of work. Talking with the longhorns, wondering what they thought about things. The work was hard and pushed me to my limits, and sometimes over them. But the first time I kicked a 1000 pound bale of hay out of the back of the truck, I let out a yell! And when I nailed the last ceiling board at the peak of the 12’ addition ceiling, I was the proudest of anything I’ve ever done, before or since. 

Like Thoreau, I eventually left. The sadness of Rickie not being there overtook me. And like Thoreau said “I left the woods for as good a reason as I went there. Perhaps it seemed to me that I had several more lives to live, and could not spare any more time for that one.”

From A Distance

 

My sister Jackie told me about a show on PBS that talked about the Erie Canal so I went to check it out. After that I noticed there was an Austin City Limit show featuring Nanci Griffith and against my better judgement I went down that rabbit hole. I knew it would break my heart and it did. Rickie and I loved her and had been lucky to see her one time. She had a pure soul, an empathetic heart, that made her songs real. She felt her songs when she sang them. 

And I was taken back to a time in my life when Rickie and I saw many Texas singer-songwriters. All the kids had grown up and left home. We had a pretty little house in Houston and had had the ranch for 10 years when we started going to the Mucky Duck and other small venues to see everyone we liked. The legends of Texas singer-songwriters. The storytellers who put the simple things of life into songs, who tell in words the emotions we feel. Who show us we aren’t alone in our feelings. 

Some friends and I were talking the other day about what the best times in our lives were. We are all widows and these last years of our lives are not like we dreamed and planned for. We’ve all made new lives and have found them to be good. But we all miss the lives we had. We don’t dwell on them too often but we do have those moments and days when we just wish the dreams had carried us to the end. 

Listening to Nanci Griffith sing her songs, from the one about the young couple dancing at the five and dime, riding with the taxi driver who wondered what chance the child on the street corner had in life, how “from a distance you look like my friend even though we are at war”, and the touching song she wrote about going to Saigon and walking through the part of life her ex-husband lived through when he was sent to Vietnam as a young man. She sang about bluebonnets and listening to the radio when you couldn’t find a friend. About a beautiful daughter of a miner who became a prostitute to support herself and died alone on the street. 

And with every song I was taken back to those days with Rickie. When we’d work in Houston all week and head for the ranch when we could, staying in the tiny little rundown camper. I was the designated driver for those trips to the Duck, heading back to our house in Katy. I didn’t have the trouble driving at night then as much as I do now. We’d have shepherd’s pie or Guinness stew in a bread bowl at the Duck. We’d bring the bread bowl home with us to eat when we got back home. Or if we didn’t have any left to-go, we’d make a stop at Whataburger. Nothing makes you hungry for a late night snack like good music.  

Nanci passed away not too long ago, as have other singer songwriters we saw including Jimmy LaFave and Guy Clark. When I think about those days I usually just brush the memories aside quickly. But sometimes you hear songs that put you right back in that place, in that time. It’s best not to do it too often because it’s hard to come back out of it and no good comes from breaking your heart over again. 

The last time I danced with Rickie was in the driveway at the ranch, under a full moon. We danced to Dancing in the Moonlight playing on my iPhone. We had driven the Mule to see our friends down the road and have dinner with them. Good times. Heartbreaking memories.

Roots and Wings

It’s been 11 years since Rickie died and our family’s world changed. And I’ve been thinking about that lately as the anniversary approaches. 

My children were in their 30s and 40s when he died. My grandchildren between the oldest 29 and the youngest 3. And we also had two great-grandchildren then, 7 and 2 years old. 

We’ve had some other tragedies since that have caused great pain and have affected the lives of my children and grandchildren.  It’s changed their worlds. And they have carried on, making changes to persevere. To have a good life.

Rickie and I always tried to make life good in spite of the usual setbacks everyone has. And to give the kids and grandkids adventures they maybe wouldn’t have had without us doing what we did. For many years they had the experience of life on 54 acres in the middle of Texas. Part of a large working ranch that had been broken up and sold, we referred to it as “the ranch”.  For city kids, it gave them and us a touch of life we might never have had. Floating down the rivers, deer hunting, campfires, taking care of a place you are entrusted with. 

After Rickie died I took what resources I had and used them to give us all the adventure of Colorado and all that entailed. Snow like we’d never seen, mountains, skiing, horseback riding, rafting. I was fortunate that Sarah and her family came to be with me full time. This gave me the adventures of a young grandchild again as the others were all grown up and making their own lives with homes and jobs and even children. Still, as at the ranch, they came and had the experiences. They learned new things.

Things have changed once again and now I’m in New York. Who would have ever thought that! My children and grandchildren are spread out all the way from China and New York and places in between! Oh, how I wish Rickie could see where we are today, not just physically but in our lives.

There’s an old saying that the two things we can give our children are roots and wings. And I think that’s what Rickie and I tried to give them. I struggled with the decision to leave the ranch back then. But a friend told me I didn’t know what they’d like in the future. Maybe they’d rather be by the ocean or on the west coast. And my leaving would teach them you can pick up and create a new life, no matter what happens to you. 

And I think that’s the life lesson we all learned, myself included. We only have one life. As Seth Walker said his mom told him - “make it sweet, make it crazy.” 

Wouldn’t It Be Nice

Everyone has a soft spot for the music that was the soundtrack to our own teenage years. The music my siblings and I listened to, specifically the older ones of us seven kids, was a more innocent music than the hard rock, loud beat, heavy metal, punk, sounds that came along later. 

We had Paul Anka, Neil Sedaka, Ricky Nelson, Annette, Connie Francis, Fabian, the Everly Brothers, Lesley Gore, Elvis, Chuck Berry, and others. Their music was soft-spoken. It had words that told a story, usually about teenage angst, broken hearts and break-ups, dating your best girl or boy. We also had the syncopated groups with backup singers. Diana Ross and the Supremes, the Temptations, the Four Seasons, the Shirelles. 

And we had the beginnings of a different music. James Brown, Janis, CCR, Aretha, and all the ones that provided the backdrop to the Vietnam War. And of course, we were there for the British Invasion. The Beatles and The Rolling Stones the biggest names. But also Gerry and the Pacemakers, the Animals, Herman’s Hermits. 

Many others too numerous to list. It was a great time for music that was more about the words and less about the hard, loud, what I like to call screaming. Ha! The songs told a story. And that story was our story. We were the ones with the broken hearts, the ones trying to find ourselves, the ones growing up. They weren’t three words you often can’t even hear repeated over and over. We were readers of books, we were writers of diaries where we put on paper how we felt. Where we told our story. Our counselors were our best friends and our music. Our parents didn’t anguish over our teenage problems and even if they did none of us average families could afford counseling. Most of us never even heard of such a thing! 

In among this group of singers, and bands, and storytellers, we had The Beach Boys. Who told us if we all only had a beach and a surfboard, and a little deuce coupe, and blonde hair, everything would be perfect. And we wanted that. We felt it was in our reach, somehow. If everybody only had an ocean.

Rest in peace, Brian Wilson.

 

The Final Frontier

I took a drive to Durango today. It’s a beautiful drive and I was thinking about living in the West and how lucky I’ve been. 

In 1989 Rick and I bought a little portion, 54 acres, of a former ranch in the middle of Texas. It was in that strip of land where the Texas Hill Country winds down and West Texas begins. 

With my move to Colorado seven and a half years ago it makes 35 years total that I’ve been able to live in the West, a dream I had since I was about 5 or 6 years old. It was sometimes part time and sometimes full time. It took a lot of hard work, a lot of sacrifice, and a lot of struggle. But when you really want something you find a way, if you can. Sometimes you can’t. You have to factor in some luck along the way. 

I love everything about the West. The mountains, the desert, the history, the wildlife, the plants. The clear rivers, the climate, the types of people that inhabit it. I love the bigness of it, the wide open spaces. The dark skies with more stars than a person can imagine, seeming so close you could reach out and grab them. I love the artwork depicting it, the beautiful jewelry with stones dug out from the mountains. I love the log cabins and the adobe houses. I love the light, the way it hits the mountain tops each morning and evening, the pink sunrises and the orange sunsets. I love the conifers and the aspens in Colorado, and the live oaks that were in central Texas. I love the way the dry wind feels on your face, the way the snow makes everything quiet. I love the food and the beer and the whiskey. 

I love the traditions and the cultures here. The stories of the indigenous people that lived here before Europeans. How they are still here, still living their lives as we all are. How they are so much a part of the area here in Colorado as they have always been. Signs marking when you enter their land. You don’t see that in the places I lived before here. If there were any Comanches in Kimble County, Texas I never ran across them. 

But life is full of stages and changes. And for many reasons I’ll be moving with some of my family. It’s not somewhere I thought I’d ever live. But I’m fascinated by the idea. I’ll be living about 4 hours south of Canada. I can hardly imagine it! That’s a day trip for us who grew up in Texas. And a long way from where I started out in life, and not just in miles. 

Barring any unknown circumstances, I expect this will be my last move. As long as the family stays there I will too. And at 75, let’s face reality, I don’t have that many years left. I expect this will be my final frontier. It will be a strange land for me. But the wilderness is all around there and there are new adventures to be had. I’m slowing down but once I get this old back repaired, I hope to be out on some of them. Stay tuned!

“Ain’t nothing better than riding a fine horse in new country.” ~ Augustus McCrae, Lonesome Dove

Broken Glass

“If We're Broken Glass

I'll find the pieces back to you

And if this Broken Glass

Won't pull together I'll turn to glue

And if this glue won't hold

I'll turn to gold

And shine for you”

It’s been 9 years now since Rickie died. And we were left with a world of broken glass. We tried to leave our world as it was when he was here. But it became apparent after a couple of years that the world as we knew it wasn’t going to shine without him. 

So 7 years ago the decision was made to leave that broken life and embark on a new one. And my kids and grandkids and I, along with other family, and people that joined us on this journey and became instant family, embraced this new life with gusto. 

We’ve had so many adventures since that decision was made. Rafting, hiking, tubing, skiing, snowboarding, snowmobiling, train riding, kayaking, horseback riding in the mountains. So many meals and drinks at local breweries where the kids shared their stories. Stories of coming down the mountain in a blizzard, Wolf Pup lessons, learning new skills, 4’ of snow in one week. Bear sightings, hiking in the forest while the snow falls on us, standing high on a ridge looking down at the river below. Sitting in the hot tub with all the stars in the universe above us. Campfires with Christmas music and s’mores, bundled up in our new jackets and boots. Sledding down the hill at Turkey Springs and up at Wolf Creek. Making snowmen and snow angels. We’ve been to Creede, Winslow and Sedona AZ, and Las Vegas NV. Going to the hot springs and smelling like sulphur, walking the river downtown with all the Christmas lights, riding in a hot air balloon. Dancing and theater and live music. Driving scary mountain shelf roads to Ouray and Silverton, trips to Telluride and Palisades. Trips to the Great Sand Dunes, Mesa Verde, and the Ghost Ranch. Visits to Santa Fe and Albuquerque. And to Crested Butte, Denver, Taos, and Roswell. 5K walks, drives to see the golden aspens and where the last grizzly in Colorado was killed. Jeep rides to Imogene Pass and tours of mines. Cutting our Christmas trees down in the forest as an eagle screamed overhead. Herds of elk, one time walking single file through a snowy field on the way to the Piedra River. Shopping in Durango. Walking dogs and watching the Cowboy Poetry Gathering parade. 

And we’ve marveled at everything we’ve done. And marveled at ourselves for doing it. We’ve not taken one moment of it for granted. It’s all been magical. 

When I sold the ranch I promised the kids and grandkids we’d have adventures. We wouldn’t lose that place we all loved and replace it with just something ordinary. We’d be bold. As Rickie would have expected of us. I always thought he’d be a little disappointed in us if we didn’t take the opportunity we had and make something of it. The small acreage and tiny cabin we struggled to pay for and worked so hard to make into what it was from the empty ranch land it was with trash everywhere, was what enabled us to live this life. 

And I’m so proud of us all and how we’ve shone. We shine for you, Rickie. And because of you. 

Broken Glass by Mayaeni

I’ll Fly Away

The Durango airport is like a step back in time. It has one concession store and one gift store. There’s a baggage area, a few ticket and rental car counters, and a waiting area. And one “gate”. When you get on and off a plane you walk on the tarmac and climb stairs. As if you’re leaving on a private plane or Air Force One. There’s the small TSA screening area between the front area and the “gate” area. And double doors that are opened when people get off an arriving plane. 

I took Kathy and Ali this morning for their return trip to Houston. We hugged and said our “I love you’s”. As they got in the TSA screening line I stood off to the side trying not to cry. It’s been a rough week for the family, especially for Kathy. We lost one of our “anchor” people, the ones that keep us rooted. Behind Kathy and Ali a woman was in line for screening. With her was a huge bear of a man. He wasn’t fat, just huge. Bear size with a blond beard and a ball cap. I’m guessing the woman was his mom. They hugged and said their “I love you’s”. 

Then he came over and stood in the small area I was in. His mom turned around and threw him a kiss. We both stood there until our people were out of sight, focused on them as they moved through the screening. Ready in case there was a problem. Ready in case they needed us. 

In the old days before bad people realized you could use planes as weapons for chaos and destruction we would have been able to sit with the people we loved until they got on the plane. And watch out the window until the plane took off and was out of sight. Our people hanging up there in the sky for hours on their way home or on an adventure or responding to a call from someone who needed them. Come here, come now, my world has taken a hit. We need you. And we go, we don’t make excuses, we don’t say it’s too far, we have obligations. We just go. We might designate the one to go as the others take up the slack at home but we go. 

It’s hard watching someone fly off. Wondering when we’ll see them again. Knowing sometimes we never do. And so the younger Bear man and the older gray haired woman stood watching our people until they were out of sight. Hoping the love we send them off with gets them safely to where they’re headed.