Life’s most embarrassing moments.  We all have them.  They are fun to think about, and fun to share with friends.  We have all done some incredibly foolish things in our lifetimes, and no doubt will do more.  Here are a few of my favorites:

Once upon a time, I worked for a  whitewater rafting company here in Salmon.  My job this particular day was to drive down to the confluence of the Middle Fork and Main Salmon rivers, pulling a flatbed trailer, and pick up rafts and equipment from a 5-day trip. I took my two dogs along in the truck.  Nutmeg , my little house dog, is a jack russell/shih-tzu cross, or a jack… well, anyway.  Walker is a great hulking oaf of a  yellow lab. Retrieving is his life- tennis balls, sticks, small children- anything.  It was a long, hot drive downriver. In time, I reached the Gold Bug mine, a historic spot operated by a lovely old couple, Patty and John.  I pulled over to take a break and let the dogs out.  Another raft company had also stopped along the narrow road, all the people from this “day trip” milling about and exploring.  I walked down the embankment, covered with sharp shards of rock called talus.  Walker appeared with a huge chunk of driftwood, eyes crossed, trembling with desire.  I broke it into as small a piece as I could manage, and hurled it far across the river.  Walker put on a show for the tourists as he charged off the rocky ledge, splashing dramatically into the deep water again and again, swimming powerfully in the swift current to retrieve his prize.  When my arm finally wore out, I turned to walk back up to the road, but there was Nutmeg.  She held a little twig in her mouth, wagging her stubby tail.  How could I resist? Nutmeg liked to swim, too.  I turned to an eddy, deep but still water, and wrapped my hand firmly into Walker’s collar, commanding him to sit.  Then I tossed the twig gently out on the water for Nutmeg.  The next event happened so fast, I didn’t even have time to react. Walker, my hand bound in his collar, exploded from the bank, ripping me off my feet and dragging me face-first into the water.  By the time I clambered out, I was completely soaked, head to toe.  I was also cut and bleeding, both knees and shins seriously abraded, as well as both elbows and a cut on one cheek.  Dripping and limping across the road to where Patty was selling mine tours, I caused several tourists to scream.  Good Patty fetched her first-aid kit, swathed my elbows and lower legs in gauze and white tape, and applied a yellow sponge-Bob band-aid to my cheek, as John clucked in sympathy.  First aid in place, I got back into the van, wet t-shirt and shorts plastered to my body. Without a comb, I ran my fingers through  my tangled hair, set my mangled sunglasses back on my nose, and hit the road.  Arriving at the take-out site where our crew waited, I caused several tourists to scream.  I assured them that I was perfectly harmless, even if I HAD just escaped from Alcatraz.  That evening, as my mother picked gravel from my bruised and battered limbs and rebandaged me, she scolded “I understand when you did this riding skateboards at ten, but now you are forty-one.  Will you ever grow up?”

A priceless story my friend Tawna related regarded a horse she had in her childhood.  He was, she states, a pretty good horse until this happened.  One time, at age twelve… I will give you a visual, Tawna is a diminutive, slender person.  Picture a skinny little red-haired girl.  Anyhow, young Tawna had been out riding her horse when it seems that she needed to pee, most urgently.  Terribly.  She rode up to the house, danced off the horse, looked quickly around for something to tie him to, and spotted her dad’s lawn mower there by the back door.  She looped the reins around the lawn mower’s handle and dashed into the house.  Ahhh.  Relief.  Except that when she stepped out the door, her horse and the lawn mower were gone.  She looked all around, no sign of either one.  It wasn’t long until her father pulled up in the driveway, looking like thunder itself.  “Do you know what I just saw?” he bellowed.  “Your (terrified) horse, dragging my lawn mower, galloping down the middle of the highway!  I swear, (and he did) we will never catch him- what were you thinking?”  Well, they did locate the exhausted horse at last, wheezing under a tree, the  crumpled lawnmower still attached to his reins.  Her punishment?  She had to help her dad build a proper hitching post in the corner of the yard.  Pretty good dad, really.  The poor horse had issues for the rest of his life. 

Tawna shared another tale worth of mentioning.  We have many cattle ranches and several rivers here.  This particular day she had gone fishing, her trusty bird dog, Chelsea at her side.  She was strolling along through the willows, tackle box in hand, fishing pole over her shoulder, feeling at peace with the world.  Chelsea had wandered up the path ahead.  Now, for those of you unfamiliar with the ways of livestock, mother cows with newborn calves HATE dogs.  They may (or may not) be afraid of humans, but when they see a dog all hell breaks loose.  Ranch dogs are savvy to this and stay in the pickup.  Bird dogs are another story.  Tawna heard an angry trumpet erupt from the brush, and Chelsea came flying around a tree,  with an enraged cow thundering right behind.  Tawna stood helplessly in the middle of the path, pole in hand, as Chelsea ducked behind her.  The only thing she could do was to smack the cow on top of the head with her fishing pole.  This startled the cow enough to cause her to stop, recognize Tawna as a human being, then turn around and take off.  The only problem was, there had been a treble-hook at the end of the pole, now imbedded on top of the cow’s head!  Tawna, bewildered, watched at the fishing line whizzed out of the reel in her hand, finally just clamping it down until it broke. Six pound test is no match for a thousand pounds of beef.  We have always wondered what happened, when the cows were gathered for Fall vaccinations. One cow had to come through the chute with a gaily colored fishing lure stuck to her forehead.  How ever did it get there?

Ok, this is the last one- another on-the-job accident.  I was working at Lost Trail Resort, our local ski area.  When things got slow during the day, employees could clock out and make a few runs on the slopes.  I had spanking-new pair of skis I was ever so proud of.  I ran into my friend Al in the lift line, another average skier with his own new Christmas skis.  We compared notes.  By the time we had ridden the lift to the top, it was clear that only a  race could determine who had the finest equipment.  Al is a terrible braggart- you just wouldn’t believe how bad. We worked our way over to the furthest run and let fly.  Jeering at each other and skiing faster than old people really should, we made a scene that would have mortified our children.  Al even cheated.  After three attempts down the hill, we were both exhausted, the winner still unclear.  I had to get back to work, so on wobbly legs headed for the rope tow for a final descent to the lodge.  For those unfamiliar with skiing, a rope tow is a big heavy cable- thing that runs between two enormous, gas-powered pulleys.  It hauls skiers single-file up a grade to a place where they can ski down.  I sailed past the sign that said “stop here” and coasted to about the middle of the cable.  As no skiers were presently using it, the chugging cable was sagging to the ground in the middle, creating a deep rut in the snow.  I reached down for it, sliding slowly along on my skis, and couldn’t quite pick it up, as chubby forty somethings can seldom reach past their toes.  I drifted over the cable as I bent down to scoop it up, cursing.  That is when a big group of kids arrived somewhere behind me, stopping and latching on to the rope at the designated spot.  They picked up the rope, which I now straddled, and it came up between my legs!  I tried several times to kick my ski-encumbered foot over the rope, but instead was pulled along, clutching the rope like a witches broom, those horrid teenagers howling with laughter behind me.  I looked up in terror at the huge pulley that loomed ahead, imagining how my body would be cut in half as I was sucked in, spattering the snow with blood, spare change and breath mints.  At last, nearing the top, I cleverly lunged sideways, kicking my left leg free of the cursed rope and escaping the jaws of death.  There I lay, like a turtle on its back, trying frantically to crawl to the side even as the other skiers unloaded and skied over my arms and legs, saying “Did you guys see that lady?  She had one leg on each side of the rope tow!”  I nearly died of shame.  When I reached the lodge, my sad story had already arrived, presumably by radio from the tow-operator.  I endured ridicule for the rest of the week.  Why me?, I asked God time and again. 

Thus endeth my stories of bravado and foolery.  If  I think up any more, I will let you know.  Please don’t laugh- it could happen to you some day.  By the way… how many stories do YOU have?

Jasper: happy, healthy, and beloved

Animal Rights: the issue is on my mind tonight, as I read the blog and website of Dan Piraro, the cartoonist of Bizzarro.  I went to high school with Dan, and my brother dated his sister.  (We are practically related.)  I remember marveling at his even-then-amazing talent, an art-loving ninth-grader to his senior status.  The site, Bizarrocomic.blogspot.com, is funny, quirky, and occasionally thought-provoking, just like the cartoons.  Dan is, as ever, a wonderfully creative, humorous, and intelligent person. 

 In his posts and comments, clearly Dan is  a big proponent of animal rights.  This viewpoint is articulately and sometimes humorously presented.  There are compelling arguments and links to activist sites.  He is unhappy with anyone who is a vegan “just for health reasons”.  He scolds those who rescue cats and dogs, then head home to a chicken dinner.  (Hmm… that would be me!)  I have known folks who shared this view, and became advocates for organizations who, say, rescue animals from the slaughterhouse steps, spray baby seals green to ruin the pelt, and protest rodeos. 

Ok, I am as enthusiastic an animal lover as anyone.  I take in unwanted, underprivileged waifs to the absolute limit of my space and finances.  This is how I acquired 3 dogs, 3 cats, and a horse.  Generally they eat better than I do, and visit the vet whenever they sneeze. Raised in the city (as animal rights activists usually are), I once also became a vegetarian, rescued turtles, worried about mistreated chickens, sent money to Greenpeace,and attempted to Save America’s Wild Horses and Burros.  My family and friends remember those days, I was truly a fanatic.  

But times have changed- while I still don’t want dolphins to die in tuna nets, I also understand some of the principles of the livestock industry and wildlife management.  And yes, I enjoy the occasional Whopper. Living in the West, there are lots of cattle ranches, abundant wildlife and the inevitable hunting, I have come to a certain understanding of how “real life” works.  I am not a totally heartless meanie.  I still think leghold traps, baby seal clubbing, most animal research, and raising food animals in tiny cages is cruel. However… 

Alas, all God’s creatures must die eventually.  It is a natural part of life.  Furthermore, animals kill each other all the time, and are not particularly speedy or nice about it.  They seldom dispatch prey as swiftly as hunters and packing plants do.  I have observed this in the wild, and believe me, it is often a messy, painful, grisly experience for the victim.  And…unless you are at the very top of the food chain, there is pretty much a 100% chance that somebody will eventually kill and eat you.  Ever look at the statistics of how many wild animals of any species born actually live to adulthood?  And they don’t get to die of old age, either.  Where does one draw the line at which ones merit saving?  Rodents?  Insects?  Slugs?  Microbes?  All are living animals, who evidently can feel pain.  Having raised chickens, I struggle to believe they are an advanced life form and thus cannot ever be my sunday dinner.  There are religious sects in India, I hear, who sweep the ground before them as they walk, lest they tread upon a bug.  Plants are living beings too, you know.  I have rescued more than one neglected houseplant.  The cattle one sees on the ranches here in Idaho have everything a cow could want… space, grass, babies, relaxation.  They seem very content.  I prefer to buy grass-fattened beef and free-range eggs.  I like to think that the creature I eat had a reasonably nice life before it died, which is all any of us can really hope for.  

Equus Callabus, the horse, my favorite.   Some countries use them for food, thus creating a small market for the ”cull” horses here.   Horses are  large animals, high maintenance, and very long-lived.  You’d better understand their needs and be devoted if you’ve got ‘em.  The animal rights activists are working hard to produce legislation prohibiting the slaughter of horses.  Though Black Beauty still makes me cry, I disagree with this viewpoint, here is why:  The recession has hit the horse industry hard.  There are lots of horses around who are of little value, perhaps not even useable, whose owners cannot afford to feed them.  Fancy, well-bred  animals are kept for show, race, and competition.   Ordinary blue-collar horses can find jobs as pleasure mounts for everyday folks, like me. Sadly, since horses proliferate easily and often, there are thousands and thousands of horses in the US which fall into the “marginal” category- untrained, behavior problems, dangerous,unsound for use.  You can’t even give them away.  They are as expensive to maintain as any other equine.  The packing plant only pays a  small sum, but the horses’ lives end quickly.  With all the legal hassles preventing this type of transaction, people simply neglect them, starve them, or just abandon them somewhere.  It is cheaper to do this to a poor old lame horse than to pay several hundred dollars for costly euthanasia and landfill fees.  There are not enough “sanctuaries”  to put them in, nor adequate funding.  Some would require a lot of  surgery, hoof care, or medications to even live comfortably at all. 

Which brings me to another animal rights hotbed, saving the wild horses.  On Animal Planet and PBS, mustangs are shown running wild and free, an icon of the American West.  It is suggested as cruel to round them up and remove excess animals from the range and have adoptions.  Thousands of unadoptable animals live on bare dirt in pens in government-funded ”sanctuaries” to live out their  lives, bored, restless, fighting, because it violates Federal law to destroy them.  Our tax dollars are spent for projects such as these while schools suffer and the unemployed cannot feed their families.  There is a wild horse range nearby, the Challis Herd Management Area : http://www.blm.gov/id/st/en/fo/challis/wild_horses_and_burros.print.html.  It was a shock the first time I went to the BLM corrals to view feral horses fresh off the range.  Never before had I seen such sad parasite-riddled animals- bones clearly visible under hides scarred from fighting, skinny mares raising stunted foals, pregnant again.   They really needed to come out of there (the range),  apparently nothing  left for them to eat… and surely any native wildlife in the area suffered hunger as well.  Some of my friends, proficient horsemen, adopted a few of these animals. With a whole lot of time and dedication, a couple of them turned out to be good saddle horses. I can honestly say that for about 75%, the project failed, the horses making unpredictable, untrustworthy mounts if even trainable.   Under the Wild Horse Act, they cannot be sold for a period of time, and never for slaughter.  What to do with the poblem animals? Most folks prefer to buy a tame, healthy horse and start from there.  They are cheap these days, my own horse was a freebie.  I do not have a problem with removing excess animals from the area, adopting out those that qualify, and humanely destroying the rest rather than turning the old, sick, and lame ones all back out to starve/weaken the gene pool or be put into crowded confinement for the rest of their lives.  Documentaries do not tell you the real story.   If my own saddle horse, Jasper, ever became unrideable, I would be in a dillema.  He is a just a big, friendly gelding- I am a clerk and starving artist but spend my hard-earned bucks to support him, as I love to ride so much.   He would make a very expensive pet for the next 20 years, what with pasture rent, fencing, irrigating, hay, farrier and vet costs.  It would be sad to part with him, but I would simply have to. 

I watched a reality show called “Animal Cops” one time.  The officers chased down animal cruelty cases, rescuing the victims and prosecuting the offenders.  Sounds like a noble cause, right?  One time, they found a large boa and a separate cage with a rat (evidently kept as a future meal for the snake) in an abandoned apartment.  The show went on to make a big deal of how they rescued and rehabilitated the snake as well as the rat, finding eventual good homes for each.  They named the rat “Ricky” or something, and showed him being snuggled by a child. Horrors, he narrowly escaped death-by-snake. Well, my thoughts raced.  Even as they saved that rat, just what were they feeding the snake to restore its health?  Different rats?  Snakes don’t eat tofu.  Isn’t that silly? 

I could go on and on.  The wolf hunt here in Idaho is under enormous protest by animal rights activists.  Wolves are not really big cocker spaniels like on your Sierra Club calendar, nor evil Red-Riding Hood eaters. Just efficient, deadly predators, doing their thing.  Transplanted Canadian grey wolves have flourished here, and multiplied beyond all expectations.  They like to add livestock to the menu now and then, and kill domestic dogs, coyotes, bobcats, foxes, and other smaller predators whenever possible.  It is OK with me if a few of them fall to hunters.  Only a sustainable number are taken, and hunting ends when the quota is reached.  If they are chased around in the woods they will retain a healthy fear of humans, which is also fine. Making cozy with large carnivorous wild animals is not a good idea- just ask Timothy Treadwell, the crusader for bears in Alaska, who, along with his girlfriend, was killed and eaten by one of his bear buddies. 

I support conserving wildlife, and providing domestic critters with all they require for a good life.  Too bad that cows and pigs have to die eventually, but I am afraid that in a natural situation this would also be the case.  Sorry Dan, but I eat fried chicken and have friends who are hunters: witness the elk steak in my freezer.  (Don’t worry- there are still plenty of elk out there for the wolves and mountain lions.)  It is good that there are people like you, crusading for animal rights.  Even if many of us think the fringes are crazy, you keep the pendulum more towards the middle and help to regulate blatant cruelty in many arenas.  I just wish you guys didn’t stir up so many problems.  Sometimes the very animals you want to save suffer because of your well-meaning but perhaps somewhat misguided efforts- shall we release the packing plant animals on the wild horse ranges so they can all starve together?  Is it really inefficient and wasteful of the earth’s resources to raise meat animals?  (Cattle out here are busy turning abundant range grasses into protein… the land cannot be otherwise farmed).  Shall we continue to keep cats and dogs, thus support the (pet food) meat packing plants, but  become vegans and protest leather shoes and such for ourselves?  I can love animals,  while still eating cheeseburgers and hanging around with hunters.   Vegetarian?  No problem.  Eat whatever you want, I won’t bug you about it.  Help me understand.  Love the Bizarro cartoons.  God bless you.

Thank you, Mr. Sendak, for that title.  It occurs to me today, while I sit at the table making stuff rather than studying online as I should.  I have been reading artist’s blogs, talking to artists, and talking to people who seem to be truly “actualized” in thier creative pursuits.  Oh, I will get to the online stuff.  But for now, I feel supremely satisfied and fascinated working on my sculpture of a Frog Prince, a better version than the first.  Making his expression a bit more pleading.  His hands clasped next to his face.  His lips more extreme.  His fat and skin falling into wrinkles and folds in much more accurate detail… (Don’t ask me how I know).  It is good to let go.  I want to let go even more, and perhaps make something people can’t even figure out!

One artist whose work I greatly admire stated in a blog that art wants to be made.  We don’t dream it up so much as it is already there, depending on us to give it form and voice.  Wow.  That changes everything for me.  By simply letting go and allowing things to happen, things take shape under my hands that I did not even see.  One becomes entranced with pushing a paintbrush or clay around, and loses track of time.  Things start to happen which feel good and are good.  Another artist stated that her goal was to amuse herself, and others are welcome to be amused as well.  Yet another person I admire, a writer/musician, told me “I just screw around doing what I truly enjoy, and I get paid for it”.  I have spent so many years doing jobs which do not capture my imagination at all, require no creativity, and which I am frankly not very good at because they just bore me to death.  I recently took the Myers-Briggs personality test, and discovered  that my type is the rarest, at only 1% of the population.  It is a relief to know that the reason it often seems as though nobody understands me is that they actually don’t!  I wonder if other creative people have a similar type.  I have always known that my brain worked a little differently than other people’s, and that made life in the Western World difficult to fit in.  Making creatures out of clay or drawing or observing clouds will always be more interesting to me than studying medical terminology, no matter how I try.  Working has never had anything to do with enjoyment. 

I look forward to taking deeper and deeper cuts with art, leaving the trite and overdone ideas that I feel other people might like, and just letting the art flow through me in whatever form it wants to take.  I must work in order to live, and strive to do the best job I can.  But my heart lies somewhere else, where the Wild Things Are.  Like Max, I want to go there and have a “Wild Rumpus”, though I might never return.  I don’t know what direction this will take my art, I suspect it will simply find direction on its own.  I like  symbols, archetypes, bold colors.  None of that insipid stuff for me.

This seems very close to spirituality, this art business.  Art, like God, wants to have a relationship with us.  It wants to work through us and have a voice through us.  Like God, it is a matter of submitting, and letting go, so art can become alive in us and do its work.  May both work through me to the limits of my strength, and in you as well if you decide to go there.  Amen.

On the first morning of 2010, I find myself pondering the odd relationship people seem to have with conciousness- altering substances.  I received invitations to a New Year’s Eve parties.  I decided not to go, wanting instead to spend a quiet evening making artwork stuff and watching a couple of rented movies.   Having attended no less than five Christmas parties already, all awash in rich food and cocktails, the thought of even one more made my head hurt.

Then, my boss, psychologist at the counseling clinic where I work, asked if I could help her prepare a simple but festive meal for the people from Drug Court (undergoing mandatory outpatient rehab therapy). Under threat of parole violation,  they had to be at our office in “group” tonight as a sort of  divergence tactic from the usual wild New Year’s Eve partying that takes place in my small town every year.  Happy to be of service to my fellow man, I spent the afternoon stirring and simmering in the good doctor’s cozy kitchen. 

It was gratifying to watch the clients straggle in from the cold and see our goodie-laden table laid out for them.  Repeat offenders for drug and alcohol convictions wind up in our program as an alternative to jail time.  They tend to be ragged and careworn, with lives nobody would envy.  Often they are jobless, perhaps  homeless, struggling to get through each day.  Disappointingly often, they emerge from jail, rehab centers, or outpatient therapy only to relapse and become clients once more.  Some of them have files as thick as a dictionary.

This was my first unplanned celebration of the holiday.  The second occurred when I received a call from some folks whose aged mother is the last living survivor of my caregiving career.  Fern is a very frail 92-year old who lives with her daughter and son-in-law, and they call on me occasionally to look after her if they need to go out.  The daughter stated that her brother had arrived in town and that they would like to “Go out for a toddy”.  They would be gone about 3 hours, could I come?  *Sigh*.  All right, the extra cash would come in handy after Christmas.    I fed and medicated Fern, and put her to bed.  Getting myself a soda from the fridge in their lovely and spacious home, I could not help but notice the beer and wine bottles lined up in the door, and knew there were many cases of each stacked in the garage.  The hours passed by slowly… midnight came and went.  Two intoxicated men showed up on the doorstep, apparently the brother and his sidekick. Dressed like typical ranchers, they had faded jeans, suspenders, and hay particles on their hats.  They inquired as to the spare bedroom, stating that the daughter and husband were right behind them.  Kicking off their boots, they collapsed on top of the bed, snoring loudly. I waited, not knowing what to do.  One of these men was Fern’s son.  They were in no condition to care for her, nor would the daughter and her husband be, whenever they showed up.   Another hour ticked by.  I knew that my little dogs, left inside my house on this cold, snowy night, had not been out in 8 hours.  I wrestled with personal ethics, considered my expensive rug, at last deciding that this was Fern’s fate and her family, and there was nothing I could do about it.  Checking on my charge, I found her sleeping peacefully.  At last, I gathered up my things and headed home, driving carefully on the highway, leery of the erratic patterns and lane changes being performed by the driver before me.   The daughter called late the next morning, aplologizing profusely.

“There but for the Grace of God go I” comes to mind.  Those “under the influence” seem to lose track of any concerns other than themselves.  What causes such troubled behavior?  I am certainly no paragon of virtue with a perfect life.  Nobody is. The phrase “addictive personality” is somewhat nebulous, though almost everybody knows someone who could be described this way. They are often really likeable folks, creative and intelligent, funny and engaging.  I remember my first drink and my first cigarette, both at the age of thirteen.  The beer was surprisingly fun, the euphoria settling in over my mind like a warm blanket.  The cigarette made me cough and feel nauseated, and I never had another- though the girl I smoked with in that back alley became a 3-pack-a-day smoker.  Over the years, through high school and college, I tried many intoxicants, sometimes overdoing it and paying the consequences.  Why?  It has since lost its appeal for me, though I still enjoy the occasional cocktail when out with friends, perhaps for the warm “buzz” it creates.

What is it that causes some folks to become heavy users and addicts, while others can walk away?  Many humans seem to have a big void to fill, a great need.  Some people are thrill-seekers, some exercise ferociously to the point of injury, some work themselves to death, some are up in the night writing and doing artwork (me), some cannot stop eating, while others strive to fill the void with sex, alcohol. or drugs.  Are any of these things  fundamentally different from any other?  I get a “high” from making stuff, and can’t do it enough.  I don’t think this would ever kill me, though lead-based paint supposedly caused the demise of Van Gogh.  Some folks seem  able to strike a balance in their lives of one kind or another.  People do not want to curtail thier habits, good or bad.  I would consider life without art practically unliveable.  I have observed that people with the addictive persona, even if no longer using, may take up another obsession, whether smoking continuously, gambling, extreme sports, eating, working, running, or pursuing whatever to the neglect of everything else in their lives.   Is this a drive to achieve excellence, an adrenaline addiction, or both? What are they searching for?  What am I searching for?  Nirvana?  Bliss?  Induced euphoria and “highs”?  I wish I knew.

I asked my boss, the psychologist, what causes this obsessive behavior in humans.  Is it genetics?  Lifestyle and cultural influences? Pleasure seeking run amok? One thing I have observed is that many (though not all) of these folks seem to have a tender, caring spirit when sober, coupled with becoming shockingly callous, selfish, and neglectful of themselves and those close to them when under the influence- a real life Jekyll and Hyde.  I wondered if people with addictive personalities are so kindly and naive that they simply cannot accept the world as it is, and turn to obsessive (sometimes very harmful) activities in order to numb and shelter themselves from the world at large.  My friend assured me that all of these factors are true, along with some things we don’t really understand.  When does dedication and determination turn into obsession, or addiction?  When does it change from a positive quality to a negative?  Many very fine and talented people, artists, athletes, celebrities, step over the line when it comes to substance abuse. The very qualities which create great drive and ambition in some arenas can wreck lives  in others.    Addictions are amazingly powerful, and although people can change, it is incredibly difficult- and the possibility of relapse looms heavily.  Successful treatment often means one must learn to embrace a new and healthier addiction, or one which is more widely accepted.  Admitting to oneself that there even is a problem is the most difficult of all, even though everyone else sees it very clearly. 

I am pondering this thing on New Year’s day. Praying that those who are lost can find their way, for each person is just as valuable as any other in the eyes of God and creation.  May we convert that “fire in the belly” into a drive which propels us to excellence, rather than causes our decline.  May 2010 bring new beginnings, rediscovered joys, more connection, and prosperity to us all.  May we learn to celebrate and practice these gifts rather than ride them to our doom.  May we learn to take care of ourselves, in order for talents and abilities God gave us to shine for all to see.   Amen.

As the loving lifetime owner of horses, I am this evening pondering the existence and loyal following of that strange, long-eared illegitimate cousin of equus callabus, the mule. 

 Here in River City, mules truly have an enthusiastic fan club.  Our Salmon Select Horse Sale is kicked off by the much-celebrated Mule Sale, prices rivalling those of the better saddle- horses.  Local mules dot the pastures here and there, happily growing fat and sassy.  They  presumably do their part at some point in the year to pack people, supplies, and game in and out of the wilderness, though some seem to spend a lot of time smoking cigarettes and playing hackey-sack on the back forty.  The Back Country Horsemen have a number of folks who favor Mr. Long Ears, extolling the virtues of these creatures as though they were family members, trimming strange patterns into their tails according to the animal’s merits.

Here is what I know about mules, admittedly limited: 

1.) Mules have a reputation for being stubborn, or “mule-headed”.  This is completely founded in fact.  Witness: mules are often fitted with amazingly creative bit and bridle arrangements, long shanks, bicycle chains, you name it.  The familiar chain-under-the halter feature encourages forward motion, along with the pretty much mandatory spurs. Mules are put together oddly, requiring a complex system of britchin’ and cruppers to hold the saddle in place over his skinny withers and shoulders.  Any self-respecting horse would be mortified.  My Jasper cannot stop staring at these strange creatures on a trail ride with them, even as my son as a child stared at circus performers.

2.)  Here are the claims to fame:  “They are so smooth-riding”. “They are smart.”  “They are sensible.”  Mule owners adore these beasts, and will defend them against all detractors.  It is a fact that on every ride I have been on where someone’s critter misbehaved, refused to load or unload, kicked a fellow animal, balked or pulled back, broke something valuable, bucked off a packsaddle, ran away, or otherwise caused consternation and colorful language, guess what kind of animal it was?  Right.

3.) Mules are not natural.  Horses, (equus callabus) and donkeys, (equus asinus) are related but refuse to  cohabit in the wild, sort of like the Hatfields and McCoys.  Some say the mule is the offspring of a horse and a donkey, but that’s only the half of it.  Saddle, pack, and work-mules come from a mare (female horse) and a Mammoth Jack, which is the biggest, shaggiest, gnarliest-looking donkey you ever saw.  Mammoth Jack people are even more bizarre than mule people. Matings must be coerced under questionable circumstances.  Let’s not even go there.  Factoid: the reverse of a mule (mare x jack donkey) is called a hinny (Stallion x jenny donkey).  A male mule is a “John”.  A female mule is a “Molly”.  Jack and Jenny, John and Molly, just one big happy family.  With people names. 

4.) Mule owners love thier charges.  They are known for naming the critters creatively- it is fun to name a mule.  “Sasquatch”, “Damn that Rastus” , “Clementine”, “Hillary” (NOT politically correct), are just some of the names I have heard.  My good friend Celeste has a mule named “Professor Marvel” (this breeder names his mules after Wizard of Oz characters).  I have ridden him, and he is indeed sure-footed, smooth-gaited, and fairly agreeable when he feels like it.  He dances around when one is mounting, bucks on the way home, and runs over you when getting into the trailer, and goes berserk if tied away from his friends, but who’s criticizing?  I could not figure out what to do with the ears the first time I bridled him, but “just stuff ‘em in!” was Celeste’s advice.  He has gotten me home safely from some perilous mountain rides, I must admit.  They use mules in the Grand Canyon, I am told.

5.) A “good” mule is as valuable as a good horse.  It has great endurance and stamina, presumably due to the hybrid vigor.  A naughty mule is hard to rehabilitate, requiring much patience and fortitude.  Professional mule trainers are about as rare as hen’s teeth and are even stranger than Mammoth Jack people.  There are mules for many purposes- racing mules, mini-mules, jumping mules, coon hunting mules, pack mules, and harness mules.  All are funny-looking.  They are not generally used for children’s mounts.  They do not compete in dressage, steeplechase, working cow horse, or reining events as far as I know.  They occasionally come in cool colors, like paint, buckskin, and appaloosa,  but mostly not. 

This ends my dissertation on mules.  I am still trying to wrap my mind around why anybody would want one, with my mule- owning friends swearing loyalty forever.  I question their judgement, but the entertainment value is good, if nothing else.  Have you ever heard a mule braying?  Odd.  Spooky.  Thank goodness they can’t reproduce on their own, is all I can honestly say…

poly clay goldfish (low maintenance!)

poly clay mermaid

It is 1 degree out there today.  Back to work tomorrow after a 4-day weekend.  The best thing about when the temperatures hit the arctic zone is the great excuse to stay home and power-lounge.  My day is going like this: make stuff out of polymer clay.  Rest.  Take down the tree.  Rest.  Check Facebook and pester all my friends.  Rest. Talk on the phone.  Rest.  Make some more stuff.  Rest.  Read seed catalogs and view frozen garden site from indoors.  Rest.  Feed the horse some apples and hay.  Rest.  It’s all good.

I wonder if a good business to have would be to take down other people’s Christmas stuff, box it up carefully and carry it to basement/shed/attic for them.  It might certainly be worth a try, NOBODY likes to do that. Same idea which makes garbage and sewer maintenance businesses thrive- just a random thought.

Everybody in Salmon appears to be staying home today, and calling each other to chat them up by phone.  Of course, on Sundays nothing is open, anyway.  Can’t go to the grocery store- closed Sundays.  The downtown coffee shop stays open for the church crowd and the old men.  No stores.  Main Street uninhabited.  The movie theater might be open tonight… last few times I have been there were no more than a half-dozen intrepid souls there.  I hope it can stay in operation this Winter.  I may bundle up and walk the dogs along the river this afternoon, if it warms up any.

This is a great time to haul out the art supplies and have at it.  I ferociously make all manner of things, papier mache and polymer clay sculptures, drawing, painting, jewelry, photography, needle- arts, knitting, spinning wool… the possibilities are endless.  I learned a long time ago to market my stuff elsewhere.  We do have one small art gallery/ artist’s co-op here which I am considering.  Folks here and tourists often favor the western-themed, cowboy-and-indian, moose and elk business.  Handmade rustic lodgepole and blue pine furniture is very popular here.  Chandeliers and lamps made from antlers, elk-ivory jewelry, small carvings, and fish-art are also quite popular.  Though I can draw horses, trout, and other wildlife with the best of ‘em, I favor the whimsical, and caterwampus effects of clay, beads, and paper.  Mermaids, magic wands, frog princes and other whimsical creatures capture my imagination more than moose.  Natural materials like rocks, gourds, wood and stone also attract my creative spirit. Along with my artsy and talented cousins,  a web site is underway to display our wares. 

I leave you with a few photos of my work.  Here’s hoping you are warm, safe, and relaxing this Sunday-after.  Kudos.

jewels and blings

Gus and his papier-mache counterpart

track of the big cat

 

Boone sleeps it off

Cowboy poet Bob Haslett

Well, at last Christmas is over and we can all relax.  In thinking over this year’s events, I realized that as a city girl growing up in Tulsa, Oklahoma I could never have imagined what Christmas might resemble away out here. A recap:  

1.) The tree.  As usual, I HAD to have one immediately after Thanksgiving.  So, my long-suffering friend Arne-the-Norwegian chivalrously agreed to take me into the hills to find a suitable candidate.  Arne called that morning, saying that his brother saw a mountain lion in an area which happened to have plenty of tree-prospects.  We could combine both- hunt the cougar with friends and hounds, then harvest a tree on the way home!  So, in a festive mood, Arne, myself, and friends Dick and Terry with their hounds Boone, Rip, and Sam headed off to the site.  First- the kill, a full-grown cow elk, in the bottom of a draw, surrounded with cat tracks. Signs of  the struggle dotted the landscape, torn up snow and brush all the way down the steep hillside, smears of blood and clumps of fur dotting the path. Elk do not go down easily.  A big golden eagle flew from the carcass when we approached, so full of meat it could barely lift off the ground and went crashing through branches before becoming airborne. We set the dogs after the quarry, and their deep, rich baying resonated and echoed through the hills.  There were tracks of a momma cougar and kittens all around, too many for the dogs to track the most recent.  We tramped uphill and down, but no cougar-sighting.  And for those of you horrified at the thought of hunting a working mother, relax.  We were only going to tree it and photograph it, not revealing its whereabouts to anybody who might do it harm.  Hunters aren’t all heartless meanies, you know.  On the way home, I selected the perfect tree and we dragged it to the truck.   A real beauty.  

2.) The parties.  The kickoff to December was the Back Country Horsemen party and potluck, held at the Ranch Saloon.   A holiday cloth and mountain of wrapped gifts  graced the pool table.  Dinner choices included steak, steak, or steak.  After a fine meal, Bob Haslett regaled us with his Cowboy Poetry about horses, mules, dogs, women, and other such.  Bob has the most magnificent whiskers in town, an 8- inch ’stache that he waxes into stiff arabesques at each side of his chin.  He of course has the mandatory big hat, vest, neck rag, and high-topped boots.  Next came the gift exchange… and what a variety of offerings.  The BCH are an eclectic crowd- hunters, packers, mule-skinners, California refugees, Viet Nam Vets, retirees, and lots of trail riders, like myself.  One by one, we approached the table to unwrap Bowie knives, bird feeders, dinner triangles, rolls of saddle latigo, gourds painted like Santa, things made from horse shoes,  saddlebags, foldable beer coolers, and purses.  I received a sign reading “No naggin’, just a little horse braggin’”, and a large black mug proclaiming “US Army” in gold letters.  

Next party was the Hospital/Clinic “Cowboy Christmas”, held at the Carmen Grange (no indoor restroom- just a dark and very cold double outhouse out back).  The event featured a live band playing Western music, as the doctors, nurses, and office staff two-stepped and swing-danced around the floor.  The hospital administrator tended bar, mixing very stiff drinks for those brave enough to try one.  Pictures in a crowd like this are always difficult due to all the cowboy hats bobbing around.  Food everywhere.  I shouldn’t have…   

The third Christmas party was at the Mental Health Clinic where I also work.  This clinic handles all the drug and alcohol rehab through Drug court.  A pot luck of people’s favorite heart-healthy recipes, gift bags passed around with cookies, homemade jams, and candy. The social workers, parole officers, counselors, and so on came in to chat and dine.  Hams for the folks in treatment were purchased by the Drug Court staff, and handed out one by one as the clients stopped in for a cookie and some (unspiked) cocoa.  

3.) The Christmas Eve Service.  I invited a group of friends to my house for some elk chili and fixings so we could all eat some more.  Then, off to the Cowboy Church service held at the old Indian Agency Building at Tendoy.  I picked up my friend Shirley and we headed out of town on Highway 28.  We were hit by a deer on the way, it just dashed out from the brush and hit the side of my speeding SUV.  I pulled over, examined the dent in my fender, observed that the deer was totalled, dragged it off the road and continued on.  Cowboy church is a simple affair, mostly ranchers and country folk in jeans, friendly and casual.  A hastily assembled band played carols.  there were 3 fiddle players (2 of whom had just started learning), one guitarist, my friend Arne and his string bass, a pretty good banjo player, and a guy with a mandolin.  Arne’s bass has been packed into the wilderness many times by mule and has the scars to show it.  He is a little hard of hearing and just kind of does his own thing, while the rest try to follow.  The violins were a little off-key, and the banjo and mandolin did the best they could.  It was enjoyable and challenging to sing “Silent Night” with them.   One friend told me of being in a trained choir and singing Handel’s Messiah in a 300-year-old church on Christmas Eve.   This was not like that.   Afterwards, another pot luck, complete with the mandatory teenie-weenies in sauce, my favorite.  

4.) The Big Day.  I was invited to attend two large gatherings with plenty of food, but in the end simply had dinner and opened presents with my small family, watched a movie, drove the old folks around town to view the rather scanty Christmas lights, and headed for home and my recliner.  Phone calls from friends and family.  Plates of fudge left at the door.  

Another Christmas behind us, *Sigh*.  I need to drink herbal tea and live off my expanded hips for 6 weeks or so, until everything returns to normal, if it ever does.  I have scheduled a mid-life crisis for next Thursday, will that work ok for everybody?

Hello WordPress readers!

I am a loyal respondent living in the remote town of Salmon, Idaho.  For those of you who may inhabit urban places, here are the stats:  Salmon sits on the inside edge of the largest wilderness area in the US other than Alaska.  We have two  stop lights, the only ones in 3 counties.  There are about 3,000 residents here.  The main industries are ranching and tourism.  There is a history of logging and mining, largely closed down these days.  We have a small weekly newspaper, one radio station, and a phone book less than 1/2″ thick.  There are an abundance of churches and bars, one grocery store, one movie theater, and currently 14 job listings.  There is no mall, Wal-Mart, Starbuck’s, or Taco Bell. To reach any of these conveniences requires a 3-hour drive, to Missoula MT or Idaho Falls.  Salmon residents are accustomed to this, it is at least 3 hours to reach anywhere.  I used to tease my mother when driving her home from the airport in Idaho Falls- the airport in Tulsa was 15 minutes from her subdivision.  When we finally reached the tiny outpost of Lone Pine, a (sorta) gas station and little diner/campground, I would remind her “The halfway point!  Now only an hour-and-a-half to Salmon!” 

It is not for everybody… but most of the residents are here by choice.  A few common reasons: 1.) because they drove through here on vacation once,  and were stunned by the incredible natural beauty of the area.  2.) The individual or family is “running away from the world” due to a variety of reasons, and feel that Salmon is at “the end of the earth”.  3.) The person is drawn to the close community and remoteness of the area, having come from a different culture such as southern California.   Those who are natives here tend to have a sheltered life, and rather perplexing ideas about the world at large.  All of you are “flat-landers”, and ”outsiders”.  One gets good at driving long distances and ordering things online. Some transplants settle easily into this lifestyle, while others build fancy homes far from town and complain when the county (busy clearing city streets and major thoroughfares) does not show up to plow their road in Winter, that there are no gutters in our muddy streets, that the nearest orthodontist is in Missoula.  This accounts for the plethora of very expensive homes on the market, for probably a long time.

 A real positive are the endless opportunities for outdoor recreation and unspoiled wilderness.  For example, I quite enjoy hiking, fishing, skiing, gardening, horseback riding, floating the river (whitewater rafting).  The mountains, wildlife, and scenery are just spectacular.  We have a wild, beautiful river, elk, moose, bighorn sheep, wolves, bears, eagles, and the like.  I have not found another place with so much to do that I love, though some folks visit here and wonder at the lack of convenience stores and restaurant chains.  I enjoy visiting other places and doing urban stuff, like interesting restaurants and entertainment, but after a week I am ready to return to mountains, open country, “Hooterville”, and an outdoorsy paradise.   There is a real “village mentality” here that can be both a blessing and a curse.  You always know where your kids are, and if they are doing anything naughty, somebody will call to tell you about it.  Everybody knows your business, your family history, your medical ailments, etc.  On the other hand, they will show up to help you move,  host a spaghetti dinner to raise funds if you are ill, and flood you in casseroles if somebody dies ( deaths are broadcast over the radio and  listed in the newspaper).  Pickups and SUV’s are the most kind of vehicle there is, and usually traffic from both lanes will stop for anyone wishing to cross the street, even if they are jaywalking.  It is a bad idea to lambast anybody, as many folks are related to each other.  Gossip, however is a community pastime!

Some things I miss about urbanity:  the arts.  Democrats and liberal-minded people.  (Yes, there is a small enclave of us here, though we don’t often discuss our views in public- no telling what might happen!)  Salmon (and Idaho, generally) is conservative and Republican, Republican, Republican!  The most common comment I heard when Obama was elected to office was “You know he is gonna take our guns away, don’t you?” .   Educational opportunities are sadly lacking, as is ethnic diversity- like, black people or Jewish folks or Native Americans. Our children must leave town in order to make any headway in the world, and we do miss them.  There are, however, all sorts of interesting characters whom you might not find anyplace else.  We have our share of Hermits, religious fanatics, survivalists, ”real” cowboys, artists, and writers.  Not too many interior decorators, architects, or systems analysts.  One must often create a niche or job of one’s own in order to live here, so it helps to be creative.  Or crazy.

I have lived here 18 years now, having married a native when attending college at Montana State in Bozeman.  I helped a tall cowboy fella with his english papers, grew fascinated by his attire of big hat, tall boots, handlebar mustache and “neck rag”, having seemingly stepped right out of a Western movie.  Shortly afterwards, I found myself married to him, baby on the way, living in Two Dot Montana in the Hired Help’s house on the back forty of a large ranch.  Shortly afterward, I drove myself, the new baby, and a car load of dogs, cats, books, and houseplants to an even larger ranch in Northern California/Nevada… about 50,000 acres.  We lived in the “cook house”, with no phone, television, or radio reception- a marvel to my family back east.  My then spouse being from Salmon, Idaho, it was inevitable that we would return eventually to assist with the family ranch, where all individuals involved were soon at each other’s throats.  Family businesses of any stripe, like marriages, can be a blessing and a curse… bringing out the best and worst sides of each participant. 

All too soon, the marriage and the ranch failed.  I owned a business  which was my artist’s dream, raising exotic sheep with special wool, selling spinning wheels and looms, dyes and knitting supplies, patterns, etc.  A shop was built to house my retail supplies and wool-carding equipment.  This lasted about 5 years until I understood that I had created a one-woman sweat shop, requiring all my time and energy just to break even, although I gained some powerful insights into livestock behavior, learned to butcher chickens, and can wrestle a sheep into a corner and milk it into a coffee cup. In the following years, I was employed as a barista (espresso-drink maker), preschool teacher, milker at a dairy, book store clerk, rafting company driver and cook, veterinary assistant, nurse aide, personal trainer and gym owner, waitress, carpet salesperson, ski rental tech, caregiver to elderly/ailing folks, and medical receptionist.  In typical Salmon fashion, I still hold 2 jobs, and do artwork on the side for fun and extra cash.

I am a member of the Back Country Horsemen, the Humane Society, and the Arts Council (yes, we DO have one of those, believe it or no).  My son, all grown up now, is absolutely obsessed with being a pro bullrider, which I try to be supportive of, though inwardly I cringe.  I have a much-beloved horse named Jasper, and a small herd of dogs and cats who have drifted in and never left.   I cannot imagine that anybody would find my life interesting, but writing is great therapy and I vow to continue, blogging being a fine new adventure.  I will try to share some of the unique and often comical things that I see here every day: the life and times of a liberal, artsy, coffee drinkin’, wanna-be cowgirl.  Thanks for stopping by.