Little Things

These things that were on the screen porch at the ranch aren’t valuable except to us who collected them. Skulls of a hog, a fox, and an armadillo, dried stink gourds, rocks with fossils, pieces of rusty metal and barb wire, bottles, feathers, and bird nests. But I packed them up when I left and packed them again when I recently moved to a different house closer to town. I moved them myself to the storage unit and moved them from there to this new house.  

Sarah and her family and I share this house and I have a partial garage that is connected to my new Bear Den. It can’t be used as a garage because the previous owner took half of it in as more living space in the walkout basement. So I’m developing it into what we’re calling the Cantina. It’s a cross between the screen porch at the ranch and a place to hang out. It has my table because I didn’t have room for it in the Bear Den but didn’t want to turn loose of it. It has some of my sign collection, my growler collection, a cabinet that Justin’s mom gave me before she passed away, and a little rustic black cabinet that Sarah and I bought in Junction back when we just had the little camper there. It cost $30 and we used it to hold our tiny 13” TV that could only get one channel out of San Angelo and sometimes not that. It was before internet and satellite. We just had an outside antennae that blew around when it was stormy. 

I can’t finish the room yet because there are a few things I need to get out of there still. My washer that is waiting on hookups in a closet under the stairs and some things waiting to be donated or picked up by others. Still I was able today to unpack the 10 boxes of ranch stuff. One box went into the shed attic, and a few things were moved to the lean-to on the back of the shed where I’ll hang them when Spring comes. But I got most of the things on this wall. 

They hold no value and to most people they aren’t even attractive. But to me they are the triggers for many good memories. How Rickie and I sat on the porch as he showed me the rock he found with little tiny shell fossils from back when that area was under the sea. The canister of deer jawbones that he used to teach us how to age a deer. The hog skull from the one feral hog he shot from the back porch. When my friends and I went to the ranch the next weekend for a girls trip we found it cleaned to the bone by the other hogs. 

The turkey feathers from my favorite wildlife there remind me of how many we had on our place, sometimes over 100 in a group. The time the electrician was installing the breaker box on the side of our little cabin, the result of a 15 year dream, and he felt someone watching him. When he turned around about 75 turkeys flew up when startled by his movement. How he was awed when he told us that story. 

The whiskey bottle I found under a cedar tree left by hunters when it had been a working ranch. The wreath we made from cable that had once held an old wooden deer stand, long collapsed when we bought the place. The tiny green wooden camper that I kept to always remind us of how far we had come from the early days and how lucky we were to have what we had. A plaster of paris deer footprint Sarah made the first year we had the property. The washer pitching game Rickie loved to play with the grandsons. The brush he bought for Gus and Woodrow, who soon decided they weren’t going to stand for being brushed. Some green marbles made from coke bottles that were salvaged when a train carrying them crashed; we bought those at a flea market in Boerne one year on the way out to spend the Thanksgiving holidays at the ranch. The dinner bell that would call Gus and Woodrow up from the pasture. 

The memories of a life well lived and well loved. If you tried to sell them you wouldn’t find a buyer that would give you a nickel for them. But I love them enough to pack them up when I’m leaving new furniture and appliances and cabins behind. And when I get older, if I do, and my memories fade, I hope I can look at these little things that made a good life for Rickie and me and for the ones we love, and recall the stories attached to them. And the feelings attached to that memory, though it often comes with tears attached. And remember how lucky I’ve been to lead the life I’ve led. 

Five Good Years

In the last couple of years leading up to when Rickie was supposed to retire he said to me many times “if we can just have 5 good years retired together, I’ll be happy. No matter what happens after that. Just 5 good years.”

On November 3, 2012 I posted this on Facebook -

“Opening day. Rickie in deer stand. I'm trying to be quiet in the cabin. Remembering back to the early days on opening weekend when Rick and his friend John C used to come out & occasionally our son John. We had the tiny trailer then and most of the time not hunting was spent around the campfire. I didn't come; it was just the guys. Those are good memories for them. Now we're all 20+ years older and have more comfortable quarters. But still. Who knew time would pass so quickly.”

The thing I feel luckiest for with these memories of the horrible camper we had then and of the times spent at the ranch in the early days, is that even then we knew we were lucky and blessed with what we had and with the opportunity we had to be there. I don’t have to look back and say “I wish I had known then how special those times were.” We all knew. And I still try to realize the wonder and the opportunity we have now with the Colorado home. Both then and now I know, in spite of the heartbreak, that we lived our dream and not everyone gets a chance to. Though I have to say also we took advantage of the chance. None of it was an easy choice and we sacrificed a lot to make the dreams come true. I don’t regret a minute if it. 

This time of year when so many memories of family times at the ranch come up, I’m always sad for what we lost when Rickie died. And wonder if I should have stayed and just died of sorrow there. But I’m reminded of an old joke I heard years ago. A man was on top of his roof with flood waters all around. Someone came by on a raft and asked him to get on and he said no, God will save me. Then someone in a little boat came by and tried also to save him. Again he said no, God will save me. A third time someone in an air boat came by and asked him to get on. He replied as before, God will save me. Then he drowned and went to heaven. He asked God why he didn’t save him. God said “I sent a raft and two boats, what more did you want?” 

Sometimes we have to save ourselves whether we think God had a hand in it or not. And here I sit in Colorado watching the snow softly fall outside, having walked with Bixby to the bus stop, fixing to work on unpacking boxes in our new home, hearing from new friends this week, meeting new neighbors, having Colorado friends help me with the move, and looking forward to Nat and Austin and their friends coming over tomorrow. 

We know what’s behind us but we never know what’s ahead of us. In 4 days it will be 5 years since Rickie died. We didn’t get one day together of the 5 good years he hoped for. And sometimes when I think of that I can’t breath. But I’ve survived the 5 years, some times just barely. I didn’t stay at the ranch just to die of sorrow. And I’ve made some wonderful memories and spent some treasured times with the people I love. Was it 5 good years? It was 5 bittersweet years and I have treasured every one. As we did in the early lean days, I know I’m lucky and blessed to be here. 

And I’m glad I got on the boat when it came by. 

Ever So Softly, the Seasons Change

Bixby’s got his Pampaw’s naturalist gene. He said “whoa!” yesterday when he stood beside this 3’ tall grass on the hill. He wanted to know why the seed heads hadn’t fallen off, as he ran his fingers along them gathering the seeds. I told him it wasn’t their time yet. I told him turkeys like to eat them but our turkeys here have more unpopulated areas to go to so we don’t see them in the yard. 

This morning, heading to the car to go to school, he took my binoculars to spot the robins in the snags, on their way south. Yesterday we saw flocks of Canadian geese and talked about how they’re headed south too. 

I was out early this morning putting the recycling out. The temp was 56 but it felt cooler. Those wonderful mornings when Autumn starts to slowly roll in, like fog over the ocean. Next week we’ll be in the 40s at night with highs in the 70s. 

The scrub jays in the Gambel’s oaks by the chicken yard gate were raising a ruckus about something. A couple of nights ago a skunk sprayed one of Bixby’s dogs in that area so maybe the jays were fussing and cussing at a skunk. 

It’s the time of year when the bears go into eating overdrive, the time called hyperphagia. Piling on the weight in preparation for the long winter sleep. They’re very active now. A realtor friend of mine went out to look at some property this week and was lucky to see a mama bear crossing an open field with 3 baby bears running full speed to keep up with her. 

Soon the aspens will change, as will the cottonwoods along the rivers and creeks. One yellow, one more golden. I’m reminded of a night in Albuquerque years ago when Rickie and I were there. We had gone out to eat that evening and as we came out we faced the Sandia Mountains and the Rio Grande, lined with golden cottonwoods. A full yellow moon hung over the mountains and the cottonwoods shined like billions of gold coins in the light. The beauty overwhelmed us. 

Later this year I’ll take a drive over to Chama and turn north. The mountains there are full of aspens and it’s a beautiful drive. A train runs up into that area from Chama. I understand they serve a turkey and dressing meal halfway on the trip. That ride’s on the wish list for one day. Friends here report it’s a great trip. Rickie and I had a good life and experienced many wonderful things, but here in Colorado I find myself wishing he could see all the things I now see without him. 

And maybe he can, maybe he sees them through his grandchildren. When Bixby takes the Durango train to the pumpkin patch, when Natalie rides her pink board down the mountain, when Lexi runs out into the falling snow and holds her face up to catch the flakes, when Zac rides a horse high in the mountains, when Jeremy hikes to the edge of the ridge. When we all gather around the campfire in the snow with the stars brilliant overhead, making s’mores as Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas plays softly on Celia’s phone. Maybe he sits beside us, marveling not at the world’s wonders, but at the wonder of these grandchildren he loved, that they find the same joy and love he had in things both big and small. 

Maybe that’s where the the true wonder lies; the generations, as the seasons, ever so softly easing into a new one. Carrying some things with them, leaving some behind, adding their own beauty to the change. I hope you take some time to enjoy this season, the ending of one, the beginning of another, when everything slows down. It goes by fast. Don’t let it slip away unseen.  

My Turbulent Sixties

No, not the 1960s, though those had their own issues. But my decade of being sixty-something years old. It didn’t turn out like I planned. Then again, most things don’t. 

They started out ok. I retired from a boring career and was set to divide my time between the ranch and our house in Boerne. I hoped to make some trips with Rickie to South Texas, his territory, as he finished up his career. I imagined him dropping me off on the beach at Corpus, where I’d soak up some sun and drink an icy margarita at a local bar there while he went to work. Our house in Boerne was only an hour and a half from the ranch and we planned to spend as much time as we could there, getting it ready for when we could both be there in February of 2015 when Rick would retire. He got 2 baby longhorns from a ranch his company owned. He’d always wanted some and being so close we could run out after work and back if needed to check on them.  

Two weeks after my retirement began, my mom’s struggle with Alzheimer’s sent her to a nursing home, never to go home again. Rickie got transferred back to Houston right before I retired and we had to sell the Boerne house we’d had for less than a year. I spent the last 2 months of working staying in a little run down stone motel finishing up my job. I covered some of the holes in the floor and replaced the toilet seat myself. There wasn’t a manager on site and sometimes I was the only person there. But the rate was good and I could walk around downtown after work. After that I spent most of my time in Houston as my siblings and family rotated almost every day at the nursing home. After a year and a half, we lost our mom and I moved to the ranch alone to wait for Rickie to retire. I learned to be a ranch hand during those 3 years. 

Half way through my 60s, my world was turned upside down. Rickie was 2 months away from retiring when he died that Thanksgiving week. Everything we had planned for, had worked for, had sacrificed for, had looked forward to, died with him. 

The next 5 years were ones of change. Trying to build a life I could sustain, one I could carry on with, filled every moment of them. Finally realizing I couldn’t stay where I was for many reasons, I had to bury that dream we’d had for almost 30 years, along with burying Rickie. I tried to make it work without him. But the amount of work, the isolation, the sadness, all took it’s toll. 

I reluctantly let go of my ranch hand persona and headed for the mountains. Here I was welcomed by everyone I met and I found some peace. There was much to learn about being a mountain girl but I found some joy along with the peace. My kids and grandkids had new adventures as we all tried to live up to what we knew Rickie would have wanted for us. Had we not tried something new, I feel he would have been disappointed in us. 

I missed the central Texas lifestyle we had and I still do. But it was never the same without Rickie. I had to accept that and make a new life, as people in my position do. Everyone says we have our memories, and I’m glad we do. But memories are a double edged sword, and sometimes they crush you. And you have to walk away from the day to day reminders of the moment of impact, as a friend refers to us losing our partners. 

I downsized from 54 acres to less than 5 and thought that would fit me. But I didn’t take into account the work and equipment required to maintain a hill at 7000 feet elevation. Or 4 feet of snow in one week and the steep driveway. Trying to clear brush and keep it cleared because of fire mitigation, foreseeing work needed on the older home and the septic system and well, all these things and more, made me realize the need to move closer to town, with a flat driveway and less property. 

It’s time to get ready for the next decade, my 70s, and what I hope is my last decade. I know some badass 80 year olds but it’s risky and most people lose a lot of quality of life then. But we’ll see. As I know well, our days are numbered and we don’t know the number. 

During the last year, as y’all know, Sarah and her family came to share the house and I did a garage conversion for more space. The new place has separate areas for us as well and we’re ready to settle in. 

We’re set to move shortly after I turn 70. I’m looking forward to less work and more hiking. More travel to visit family, more new adventures. I enjoyed ranch work when Rickie and I did it together and I enjoyed the feeling of improving a place. But I need to hang up the saws and tools and change gears a bit. I want to plant flowers and a few veggies, not clear hillsides. I want to mow and weedeat a yard not a hill. I want to decorate for holidays not build a house!

Bring it on 70 and let’s see what you’ve got! I hope you keep the heartache to a minimum. The 60s kicked my butt, so give me a little break and let me slide out of this ole world knowing I gave it my best and didn’t take it for granted. Because some of us didn’t make it this far. We left a lot of graves along the trail. 

On A Good Day

I spent July 4th moving stuff to the storage unit. It wasn’t a happy day for me. I wasn’t feeling the holiday and selling and buying houses has been more stressful than it should be. It was 5 years since my son-in-law’s mother Miriam had died, and 5 years and a week since my brother David died. I was wondering why in the hell I’m not tossing out some of this stuff I’m moving, and handling things I brought from the ranch just made me sad. Every song that came on made me cry and think of loved ones lost. When Zane Williams’ On A Good Day came on I played it over and over. Sometimes it helps, sometimes not. I’ve played it a million times since Rickie died. I was thinking I should ask my brother Andy to learn it so he can sing it for me when I’m gone instead of I’d Like to be in Texas for the Roundup in the Spring. I’d asked him to learn that a few years ago. That’s the kind of mood I was in. 

Then something happened. It was a little thing, and in the way little things often are, it wasn’t. As I was waiting to turn out of the storage facility onto the highway there was a couple with a motorcycle stopped across the highway on the shoulder. They weren’t old but they weren’t kids either. I’m not sure why they were stopped but as they got back on and took off, the woman held onto her cowboy hat with one hand and gave me a little wave to say thanks for letting them go first. I had to wait on 3 more cars coming behind them before I could pull out. 

We were down the road a ways and I saw the cars in front of me were all swerving to avoid something in the road. I couldn’t see what it was but it was moving in my lane like an injured squirrel or bird. As I got close and also swerved to avoid it, I saw it was the cowboy hat the woman on the motorcycle had been wearing. I looked behind me and vehicles were still swerving to avoid it. That made me smile and the whole day suddenly changed. Up ahead around the curve I saw the couple on the motorcycle just moving on, never looking back for what was lost. 

And I thought I ought to do the same. At least for a little while. 

“....And on a good day, the steam from my cup

Rises in a ribbon like a prayer going up

And I can close my eyes and not see your smile

And I feel like myself again for a little while

And the mountains breathe, just like they did before

On a good day I don’t miss you anymore”

Zane Williams On A Good Day

Some Days Are Diamonds

Last week I had to drop some paperwork off downtown. The office I went to had several winter prints on the walls, all of a mountain man in a red coat. Snow was on the ground and bending the branches of the conifers. The mountain man had been hunting and in some prints had Canadian geese he was sure to make a meal of later back at camp. 

I didn’t know the artist so I tried to find the prints on the internet when I got home. I believe the prints were Paul Calle’s artwork. I found these beautiful prints he did of a mountain man in a red coat. I love the vibrant colors and the way the man looks in them. 

We had a tough winter here this year, especially for a Texas gal. It seemed it would never end and we were all running out of room to pile the snow. The roads were narrowing down as the snow plows pushed more and more snow to the side. 

Last week there was more snow in the mountains in northern Colorado. One of the meteorologists said she didn’t know if this was the last snow of winter or the first snow of the next winter! 

Here in Pagosa it’s been beautiful sunny weather lately. The flowers are all in bloom and things are as green as Ireland. The rivers are running full speed ahead with the last of the snowmelt. We’re finally all able to get outside without shoveling snow or worrying about the roads being plowed. The roads and towns are full of summer visitors. 

But as I looked at the mountain man prints downtown a remembered feeling of winter came over me. It’s the feeling of breathing in the crisp dry air here when it’s cold. The air is so clear then and what colors there are - the blue sky, the dark green Douglas firs and Ponderosa pines, the winter coats and hats everyone is wearing - stand out brighter than they do in the warm humid climates I lived most of my life in. And the snow covers everything, hiding the clutter and the cast offs of people. The sun turns the snowy ground into fields of glittering diamonds. Here and there you see deer and elk tracks, and maybe the footprints left by rabbits or foxes. And of course, the magpie prints the chattering birds leave behind. 

It’s a feeling of being alive. Of being able to see the breath of your life. The air so cold you feel a slight bit of burning pain as it enters your lungs. You’re aware you’re breathing, it’s not just something you do automatically. It’s a wonderful feeling and you only get it by enduring the problems that come with being in a cold snowy climate. 

And I’m thankful I’ve gotten to feel that. If you get a chance to feel that too, even if just for a short visit to a wintry place, don’t take it for granted. Stop for a minute, hopefully on top of a mountain with a view spread out below you. Or maybe gathered around a fire pit in the back yard with those you love, talking about the adventures you had that day. The stars sparkling overhead, flipping the snowy diamonds that were beneath your feet during the day. Whatever you do, don’t let it slip by unnoticed. These moments are numbered for each of us and we don’t know the number. Soak them up. 

Downsizing Again!

A few weeks ago I spent several days clearing an area behind the garage. It’s on a hill and had a fence that was falling down. I had to use the loppers to cut brush out and the chainsaw to cut some little oaks out. I cut the fence out, took fence posts down, and removed plywood off the front of a shed that used to be a dog run. The only way to access that shed had been to crawl through little openings sized for dogs. 

It took me about 3 weeks of aches and pains to recover from all that. Looking at the hill remaining to be cleared I figured I had several years of work left. I can really only clear it when it’s not leafed out, so a short time frame in the Spring and Fall. But I figured I’d work on it a little at a time and over several years I’d finally get it cleared. 

But one morning it just hit me that I was fooling myself to think I’d get all that done. I’ll be 70 this August and I can tell every year that it gets harder and harder to do this kind of work. In addition to the new clearing the part of the hill already cleared has to be kept that way as it constantly tries to take it back. If it was a flat area it could just be mowed to keep it down. But it’s on a hill and I have dragged a mower up to do part of it before and then used the weed eater to do what can’t be mowed. It takes about 2 weeks to get it all done and then it’s time to start over. I just don’t have the equipment or strength to do it any other way. 

When I bought the 5 acres I thought it was a good transition from the 54 acres I left in Texas. I figured I’d just leave everything wild except right around the yard. But with fire mitigation and regrowth, I saw you really shouldn’t do that. 

 

My daughter and her family live here now but between working full time and parental duties, they don’t have much free time. And we all moved here to have new adventures. I haven’t been hiking in over a year and there are so many places near here I want to visit. Rickie and I used to clear our place and considered it fun. We were working together and there’s a sense of satisfaction in clearing a previously unusable area. But no one I know thinks that’s fun and without Rickie I don’t even think it’s fun anymore. 

So I’ve decided to sell this place and move closer into town. I’m looking for a place with a flat driveway and yard that can just be mowed. With some planting beds where I can have flowers and maybe a few vegetables. A place that doesn’t require much work so I can have some new adventures. 

This place needs a younger owner, an outdoorsman, one with better equipment than I have and someone that would like to maybe keep some chickens (which we have) and even a couple of goats. Someone that wants to live in the country but can’t afford or doesn’t want a big ranch. 

In the years since Rickie died I’ve done construction projects at the ranch and here. For years I’ve always wished I had been a carpenter or contractor. These projects let me fulfill that wish and they showed me I could do it. The ranch one also helped me get through the first year after Rick died. So I don’t mind leaving a place after I made it better. We always left every place we had better, even when we were just renting. And doing a lot of the work myself enabled me to get the investment back. 

But life is lived in stages and I see a new stage ahead for me. We’ve never been ones to falter at a decision just because it was difficult or required leaving something behind. Life is a journey and for me, it’s time to downsize once again. The kids and I have grown used to each other and we want to stay together. I was fine being on my own for years but now that they are here, especially my little grandson, it would break my heart to be away from him. He comes over every day, sometimes just to check on me and see if I’m ok. 

We’ve found out that selling a house here often takes a good long while. Everywhere else we were we sold our houses in a matter of days or maybe a couple of weeks. But it’s a different market here so I’ll probably be here a while longer. Then finding a house that works for us all will be a bit of a challenge. I doubt we’ll find a place with two whole separate houses as we have here. But I’m willing to compromise my part of the house and the kids are too so that we can stay together and enrich each other’s lives. Wish us luck! 

And if you want to see the house, here’s the link. 

Pagosa house for sale

The Things We Keep

When I moved all my stuff to the garage while I did the conversion, this lamp ended up behind things on the work counter that I hadn’t found a place for yet. Cleared most of that out yesterday and found the perfect place for it. For some reason Rickie loved this lamp and had told me he hoped we had a place for it when he retired to the cabin. 

His collection of Texas history books are in the cabinet along with some of his little things. An owl feather, rattlesnake rattles, the Buck knife he always carried in his truck for cutting up jerky and sausage on trips, some porcupine quills, a piece of pottery made by a man from Mexico whose aunt owned the Mexican restaurant in Junction. A jar of dirt from Shotgun Ridge and a jar of Texas caliche. A dead mummified hummingbird I found, and a jar with the shotgun shell from the Ridge with its name and shell casings the hunters left in the Knight blind over the years. A baseball from a game he played in 1970. 

A quilt Elizabeth made from his shirts and a cabin quilting she made for me when I moved here, a fox skin from before he decided no one should shoot a fox at the ranch, some blackbuck antelope antlers a friend of his took from a dead blackbuck he found by a Texas ranch gate, an old jar Natalie bought me with ski lift tickets from the kids that come over, and some family photos of grandkids Jeremy, Emily, Bixby, and great-grandson Anthony. On the side is a scarf Sarah and Justin brought me from Italy and a wrap my friend of 40 years Deborah gave me when I moved here. 

I love this little corner. It tells a lot of our life. ❤️ I hope y’all have a corner like this with some of your treasures. When you downsize these are the things you keep. They tell your story. Not the expensive things you bought that have no value except money. My carpenter came over after I was moved in and as I showed him around he said “everything you have has a story, Sue.” And so it does. ❤️

Will the Circle Be Unbroken

Yesterday morning my 7 year old grandson Bixby came over. He only stayed about 5 minutes. We looked out the window and chatted about what we’d do that day. Then he said he was going back home. I asked him if he wanted some breakfast. He said no, he only came over to check on me. 

When I was a little girl we lived in a duplex, our family on one side and my grandparents on the other. We were connected by a small front porch. Every evening after supper I’d go to my grandparents’ side to watch TV with them. Together we watched Ed Sullivan, Red Skelton, Lawrence Welk, Dragnet, The Wizard of Oz, and the country music shows that were on Saturday night. My chair was the one by the door and I’d lay back crossways on it with my head on one arm and my feet hanging over the other arm. The chair was in a corner by the front door and my Papa would often have to tell me to keep my feet off the wall. We didn’t talk much on those evenings, just quietly watched TV. 

Our side of the house was chaos, as you’d expect with 7 kids. It was a small two bedroom home with a small addition that functioned as my parents’ bedroom on one end and our dining area on the other end. A sofa separated the areas and there was a place for our washer and dryer also. The back wall was all windows that looked out over the backyard. All four of us girls plus our baby brother shared one bedroom and our other two brothers shared the smaller bedroom. 

I longed for quiet and calmness, even as a child, and was drawn to my grandparents’ side. Nothing was ever out of place there and it was quiet. In their bedroom my grandparents had a chest of drawers with two little doors that opened to a shelf on the top. A wooden sailboat was embossed on each door and the whole chest was stained a medium maple color. Behind those doors my grandmother kept treasures like tiny gold safety pins, antiseptics, and bandaids. Whenever we needed those she’d open the little doors and take them out. Sometimes we needed Mercurochrome or Merthiolate on our cuts and scrapes. These came in little brown bottles with glass droppers. One of them burned like crazy and one not so much. One turned your skin red but I can’t remember if both did. They contained mercury and aren’t sold in the US any more, as far as I know. We were always in hopes we’d get the one that burned the least when we had a cut! The choice was in the hands of the grandparent treating us and the one that burned the most was considered the most effective. Naturally. 

My grandparents had a second bedroom that no one ever slept in except one time I can remember. Uncle Justin and Aunt Sweetie Mae, my grandmother’s brother and sister-in-law, came to visit one time. But most of the time it was just my Mamaw and my Papa, and in the evenings me. I loved my grandparents’ side. The beds were always made, nothing was where it shouldn’t be, no toothpaste in the bathroom sink, no muddy footprints on the floor. There were rules to follow that kept it this way but I was willing to accept them for the orderliness of the home. It was an escape for me from the loud, bustling side of the duplex where I resided most of the time. I loved being with my family but I’ve always needed to be alone sometimes. Rickie and I were each the same way and we understood that and were never offended by it as some people might be. 

We didn’t watch scary shows at my grandparents’ house like so many shows are today. The Wizard of Oz was the scariest thing I remember seeing. After it was over I was afraid to walk back to our side of the duplex and hurried across the tiny porch to our door, afraid the flying monkeys would be lurking overhead to get me!

With the garage conversion here in Colorado, I’m now the Mamaw on the quiet orderly side of the duplex. Bixby’s side is where all the action takes place. Though he’s only one child, not seven, he has dogs and cats and video games and working parents and the disarray that accompanies all that. I don’t have a chest of drawers with two little doors with sailboats on the top. My brother has my grandparents’ dresser. But from time to time Bix comes over to get a bandaid from the little shelf in the pantry. I don’t subject him to red staining medicines that burn and maybe poison him but sometimes I’ll get the triple antibiotic gel out. 

Sometimes in the evening he’ll come over for a while. He’ll tell me he’s just coming over to hang out with me. He’ll climb up on the bed and lean back against all my pillows and watch TV or play a game on the iPad. Sometimes he’ll tell me things that happened or things he’s learned. Last night he came over with his big plastic popcorn container with 4 small ones. They all look like the boxes you get popcorn in at the movies. I keep two kinds of popcorn here, the butter one he likes and the kettle corn I like. He gets his out and pops it. We decide where to store the large popcorn bowl and he leaves me with two small ones and takes two back home. He tells me not to forget where we decided to keep them. 

Went I went to my grandparents’ house each evening, I never wondered if they wanted me there or if they’d rather be alone. It never occurred to me to wonder. We had our system and our rules and we each gave a little in order to have the bond. I didn’t know it at the time but those evenings formed me into the person I am. They gave me a break from the hustle and bustle of my family and taught me to respect how my grandparents lived. I sometimes wonder if they recognized the introvert that craved order in me and knew how much I needed to be there, that while I loved them and being with them, it was also something I needed. The calm, the quiet, the order. I don’t think I could have verbalized it myself at the time. 

And now that the circle of our family’s life continues, and I’m the Mamaw with the orderly little house, I don’t have to wonder how they felt when I came over. I know. Bixby and I have our way of doing things, our own rules we follow, much as the little boy and his elderly aunt in Truman Capote’s A Christmas Miracle. He never overstays and he doesn’t come every day. And I have rules that are modified a little to fit a 7 year old that’s a bit more outgoing than I was. One late afternoon I came home from helping out at a garden club event and found him on the bed watching TV and having a snack. He knows how to find his shows on the Apple TV and he knows where the snacks are. And he never has to wonder if I want him here or if I’d rather be alone. He knows it’s his home too and we each give a little to have the bond. And I wonder if he’ll be formed by that as I was. 

Boats to Build

A couple of weeks ago some of my Texas kids and grandkids and I were eating lunch at Steamworks Brewing in Durango. As I walked back to the table from the restroom I looked around at the industrial style room full of people smiling and laughing and talking. Everyone with vests or jackets, snow or hiking boots, some with knit caps. I slowed down to take it all in. And I thought to myself “I’m in frigging Colorado; never in my wildest dreams did I think I’d be here, a local now. With all these people that love it here as I do, even with the challenges of the snow, and maybe because of the challenges loving it even more. And sharing the adventure with my family.” And I am once again grateful for the life I live and the choices, if not the circumstances, that brought me to this place.

This morning some photos of our house in Katy, Texas showed up in a website email I received. We lived there for 7 years while we worked in Houston and went to the ranch every chance we got. We were never crazy about Katy. It was a boring generic Houston subdivision. But we spent a lot of time turning our backyard into a beautiful garden. We had a few vegetables and lots of flowers! We tried to make it our own and every weeekend we weren’t at the ranch we were at the nurseries picking out new plants to try. 

At one time we had a little fish pond until a feral cat destroyed it. We replaced it with a bubbly fountain made from a tall ceramic pot. It was a peaceful yard and we spent many afternoons grilling and having a drink on the patio.

When I looked at the photos showing up this morning I thought if we had been different people, I might still be in that house in Katy. If we hadn’t fallen in love with central Texas, if Rickie hadn’t been the kind of person that wasn’t afraid to take a risk, if he hadn’t taught me not to settle but to go for a better life, a better place. To ignore the people who thought we were crazy, that I was crazy to leave everything we had worked for behind to try and find joy and adventure. 

If not for all that I might still be there in that little house, in that subdivision, with the beautiful yard we had created. And not walking through Steamworks Brewing in Durango, Colorado, feeling a kinship with everyone else in that room. And returning to a table full of kids and grandkids that have had adventures we never thought we’d have. 

Life can be predictable and safe. And that’s not all bad. But every choice we have made has led us to where we are in this moment. Make sure some of your choices are unpredictable. Build yourself a boat and sail out of your safe harbor. Learn to embrace the challenges. The highs are never as high if you’ve not had the lows, or had to work a little harder for them. 

That being said, us Texans are sure ready for some more Spring weather and the end of this crazy Winter! And we’ll love it all the more because of those times we were stuck in the snowbanks! 

Boats to Build by Guy Clark

This Land is Your Land, This Land is My Land

I moved to Texas when I was 14. I was glad to be there and had begged my dad to move us there for years. For 53 years I lived there. All of my kids were born there and most of my grandkids and great grandkids. 

I owned horses and learned to ride them and care for them. I groomed them, cleaned their stalls, fed them, saddled them, cleaned their hoofs, and taught my sons about them. I raised 2 longhorns from babies and was their chief caretaker for 8 years. I hauled hay and feed, set up stock tanks, and mended fences. 

With a couple of exceptions, I know more about Texas history than most people I know. I know the names of many native Texas plants and trees and planted native plants in my planting beds and landscape. I protected them on my property. I made prickly pear and agarita jelly. I’ve cut and burned piles of cedar as big as a house. I’ve cut live oaks for firewood. 

I know the habits of native Texas whitetail deer and turkeys. I can talk to turkeys and ravens well enough that they talk back to me. I’ve hauled tons of corn and milo and filled feeders. I’ve helped haul and unload and set up a deer blind and I’ve painted and maintained blinds. 

I’ve lived in a cedar cabin in the middle of Texas and owned 54 acres there for 28 years. I have a jar of caliche and one of soil from there on my bookcase. For years I kept a jar of caliche on my desk at work and I was the only person I ever ran into at the huge Houston area school district that knew what caliche was. I can tell it by smell blindfolded. I hauled a mesquite mantel from Texas to Colorado and moved it around for 2 years until it’s finally on my wall here. 

I made window curtains with material with Texas quotes. I made a fire pit with native Texas stone I gathered on my property. I know the way the constellations move across the Texas sky. I’ve traveled to just about every part of Texas there is. I have a library of Texas history books and I’ve read them all. I’ve seen just about every Texas singer songwriter except the very young new ones from the last few years. My walls are full of photographs of native plants and animals, photos we took. 

I can protect my family from rattlesnakes and skunks, though I always lost the war with raccoons. But I fought that war anyway. I’ve eaten more than my share of BBQ, Tex-Mex, and Texas chili. I’ve consumed many a margarita, and sat on the porch with a cold Corona and my boots propped on a cedar post after a hard day’s work outside in the Texas heat. 

I went into debt to send my daughter to the University of Texas at Austin and I’ve taken my grandkids to Barton Springs, the capital building, the tower at UT, to Del Rio and Cuidad Acuna. We’ve been floating down the Llano River, I’ve tubed down the Frio, and swam in the Guadalupe and the Gulf of Mexico. I spent a summer in Brownsville and made weekly trips to Matamoros. I’ve attended many an Astros and Oilers game, back in the day.

I’ve lived my life in jeans and boots and a pickup truck is my preferred method of travel. 

In other words, you can find some people that are more Texan than me - after all, I don’t have boots with a Texas flag on them - but you’ll find a whole lot more that are no where near as Texan as me. 

And yet people born in Texas do not not consider me a “real” Texan. I used to know a co-worker one generation removed from Italy that lived to remind me weekly that I wasn’t a real Texan. I was forced to be petty and tell her my grandfather fought in the American Revolution or she wouldn’t have a country to live in. I tell her Davy Crockett and Colonel Travis weren’t born here either. 

This morning I had breakfast with some of the dog walkers. One couple used to have a dairy farm in Wisconsin. Another couple came from Minnesota. The young waitress lived in Alaska for two years. One woman is from Missouri. One vet tech spend an internship in Oregon. One woman lived in New Mexico for 35 years. One woman is from Arizona. Missing was the woman from Washington DC and the one from California. Last week at the auto shop the tech was from New York. On a previous visit the man helping me was from Tennessee. 

No one here has ever told me I wasn’t a “real” anything. They say they are glad I came here. Even the fella at the post office, who I only know from there, told me yesterday it was good to see me again. There are some people born here that are mad about everyone else that wasn’t born here, same as the “real” Texans. But I haven’t run into those people. And for that I’m thankful. 

It was a beautiful day here in my new home, spent with interesting people. The sun was shining in a clear blue sky, the dogs were happy to be out and about, and I felt like a “real” human. 

This land is your land and this land is my land but it never really belongs to any of us, we just have the use of it while we are here. Enjoy your time. 

Ravens

It’s snowing again this morning. We had 4 inches yesterday, after the 2 feet we got last week. We’re not expected to get much today, maybe an inch, but who knows. Colorado weather forecasting is apparently difficult. 

There’s a lone raven flying high above the hills around me, flying toward and over my place, snow falling softly around him. It’s a beautiful sight and I’m privileged to see it. 

Bixby and I went to the grocery store a couple of days ago and as we were getting in the car, he heard a squawking and asked me what that bird was. I looked up and a raven was perched on the top of a light pole. They’re a huge bird and unless you see one close, sometimes hard to tell from crows. Strangely to me, a group of crows is called a murder but a group of ravens is called a kindness. 

We had ravens at the ranch in Texas and I’ve written about them before. They sometimes nested on the ridge behind the cabin and we named all the males Edgar and all the females Lenore. Along with wild turkeys, they were our favorite birds, intelligent and loyal. And if you talked to them, they would talk back. We would sometimes be in the cabin and hear them and go outside to talk with them. 

When Sarah and I were driving over so I could close on the house and move in, ravens met us on the road to Santa Fe, as we turned off the interstate, and we saw them all along the trail, each group of 2 or 3 passing us on to the next. As if they were saying “come on, we’ll stay with you until you’re safely home, don’t be afraid. We’ve been waiting and watching for you.”

And maybe that’s why they’re called a kindness.