El Ranch Gitano del Desierto

IF YOU CAN'T BE HANDY...BE TENACIOUS

The long awaited arrival of my 10x16 Premier Building shed was another milestone in life lived off the grid. The building will serve as a tool shed, a tack room, a reloading room, storage and most importantly – a laundry room.

Unlike the “build on site” Tuff Shed for my Oregon property – the Premier Building arrived fully intact on the back of a large flatbed pulled by a semi that barely fit through the main entryway.

I marveled as I watched the sole deliverer of the shed unload the shed by himself. Unlike the Idahoan-hill-Billy do it yourself connex removal that shook the ground with a thud – the shed was gracefully brought to the ground via rollers and an automatic, tilting bed. Once on the ground, the shed needed to be rotated 90° for it to be orientated properly. No problem. Using a three wheeled fork lift type gadget – the delivery guy maneuvered the shed exactly where I wanted. A few leveling blocks and less than 20 minutes later and Wa-La. Instant laundry room. Where the heck was this thing when we were unloading my connex?!

I was excited to get items transferred from the connex into the new shed. First thing on the list...the washer machine. I'd been carrying the old washer around for two years. It's the old style Kenmore that has an agitator. The kind that actually gets your clothes clean! The new washers come with computerized control boards – will automatically order laundry detergent for you and have a gazillion different settings that take a PhD to understand. They also play six different annoying jingly tunes because that's important when washing your underwear. They can do damn near anything....anything except get your clothes clean.

I know the washer was in working order when it was given to me. Somewhere between 1200 miles and the impact of the connex falling off the flatbed...that all changed.

Getting to the washer in the connex was a feat in itself. I didn't exactly have a plan for packing when I left Eastern Oregon. I was in a hurry to get out. Basically, I threw my shit in there anyway I could get it and got the hell out of dodge. The washer was loaded first....behind every other conceivable item I owned. I had to move everything...boxes, furniture...you name it... out of the connex to get to the washer and then put everything back in. By the end of the day, I was so tired I wasn't exactly careful in handling it. It's a washer machine...what could go wrong?

I wiggled, twisted and drug it across the connex floor and onto a pallet resting on Miss Kitty's forks. During the process, the skin of the washer kept wanting to come completely unhinged. When I finally got it wrenched onto the pallet – I wrapped a ratchet strap around it to hold it all together. Probably should have done that in the beginning.

My first impulse was to unload it directly into the shed, plug her in and wash me up a load of dirty duds! That would be all good except I didn't yet have the shed plumbed for the drain or power. Maybe it would be a good idea to test it out first anyway. You know...just in case.

Remember, I am living off-the-grid. I drug out my heaviest extension cord, plugged one end into the generator and the other into the washer perched atop the pallet on my tractor. I attached a garden hose long enough to reach from the RV spigot to the back of the cold water inlet on the washer and hooked the drain hose over the forks. It wasn't quite level. I don't know if that would effect the functionality of the washer or not – but it looked a little too redneck all tilted like that. I fired up Miss Kitty and leveled the washer machine. Perfect.

I pushed the remote start on the generator, tossed in a medium load of laundry, a cup or so of All Free and Clear and let her rip. I watched with glee and anticipation. Water immediately began to fill the washer. I clapped my hands together with excitement! It was working! I watched the water continue to fill...and fill....and fill still more. Shouldn't it stop filling by now? The water level reached, most certainly, far above what a medium load would entail. Concern replaced glee as the water level threatened to breach the tub and spill into the chassis....the same chassis held precariously together by a ratchet strap. I slapped the control dial on the washer like an over zealous Jeopardy contestant: “Alex....who is the Maytag repairman and why is he lonely?”

I spun every dial and knob on the washer in an attempt to drain it. Nothing worked. The thing wouldn't do anything but fill. I manually drained it by putting the drain hose on the ground, tossed my soggy clothes in a tub and drug them to Crandall's in defeat.

It had to be something simple. I went about taking the washer apart to see what I could see. For something that wouldn't stay together without a ratchet strap – the damn thing was sure a pain in the ass to get apart. That seems to be the way it works. I use to work on computers and did a lot of hardware installation and repair. People think you are really smart if you work on computers. In actuality – fixing them is the easy part. Getting the case open is the hard part. It takes tenacity and the patients of a saint. Tenacity I have. I would not be defeated by a big metal box who's only purpose was to fill, agitate, spin and drain.

It was dark by the time I got the washer apart well enough to expose the working parts. I could see nothing obviously wrong – but standing on your head inside a wash tub holding a flashlight in your mouth didn't make seeing anything particularly easy. All the wires seemed to terminate properly...no burnt terminals – no fried components – a little hose that seemed to go nowhere important. It must be possessed. The washer was indwelt with little Kenmore demons and I was condemned to washing my clothes at the West Plaza laundromat for the rest of my life. It won't be all bad. Maybe my cross dresser friends are still there. I could use another shirt. (If you missed that...you'll have to go back to my first series of blogs “The Pumpkin Cheesecake Diaries” to figure that one out.)

My typical repair jobs usually go something like this: I take the thing in need of repair apart after searching 3 different trailers and 2 buildings for needed tools, scrape the skin off several knuckles, say a few choice words - stare at working/nonworking components with clueless, stupefied deer in the headlights look. Scratch head. Put everything back together with the exception of one screw that mysteriously materializes out of nowhere...toss screw over shoulder and pray. Miraculously, 9 times out of 10 the thing starts working.

Not today. Not the Kenmore washer from hell. I put everything back together – turned it on (without clothes this time...I'm slow but I learn) and pray. The thing continued to fill with water until I shut it off and manually drained it. Fabulous. It was time to get out the big guns. It was time for U-Tube.

I pulled up U-Tube and typed in the search query: “Kenmore washer continually fills – won't drain.” Apparently I am not the only Do-It-Yourself'er too cheap to hire a repairman. The first batch of results scrolled across my monitor: PRESSURE TUBE NOT ATTATCHED. Ah ha! That stupid little clear tubing that seemed to go nowhere. I've got you now, Kenmore.

Come morning – I once again tore the washer apart – skinned a couple more knuckles – said a few more choice words and located the plastic tubing. It was indeed disconnected from the pressure switch thingie-ma-bopper. I reconnected the hose - reassembled the washer – fired up the generator and switched on the washer machine. They say a watched pot never boils but I was transfixed on the filling of that washer. Inch by inch the water rose...closer and closer to the level I assumed appropriate for a small load. My heart beat faster with the rising. The suspense was palpable. Moments before I considered throwing in the towel, the Kenmore made an audible clicking tone and the water ceased to flow. I fixed my own washer machine! I am a freaking genius.

I thought it best to let the cycle finish before declaring victory and tossing in a real load. If my calculations are correct – the agitate, drain and spin cycles should be next. How long does the washer set in this seemingly stagnant portion of the cycle? Thirty second? Three minutes? Thirty minutes?

I didn't want to appear impatient – no sense pissing off the Kenmore demons anymore than necessary. I decided to run to the post office and stop at the Coyote for an ice tea. This demonic exorcism was thirsty work.

Back from the Post Office and a jumbo ice tea in hand, I peered into the washer. A pathetic whimper escaped from deep within my throat at the discovery of the washer still stuck in non-draining limbo.

I'm pretty sure I saw a used washer for sale at the last Taco Tuesday flea market. I didn't want to spend the money on a new washer and buying used somehow felt less embarrassing than admitting defeat by taking it to a real appliance repairman?

I wasn't ready to give up just yet. Back to U-Tube. Search query: “Kenmore washer won't enter drain cycle.” Results: POSSIBLE LID SWITCH MALFUNCTION.” Either the lid lever could be broken off or the switch itself could be bad. There were numerous videos on how to test for the switch and a few showing how to bypass it altogether...although for safety reasons this method was highly discouraged. Safety my butt...if the switch was bad, that puppy was getting bypassed!

One of the videos not only showed how to look for the switch, but gave excellent step by step instructions on how to properly (and easily, I might add) access the control panel WITHOUT taking the whole damn washer apart. Where was this video 24 hours ago?

I verified the little plastic lid pin thingie was intact and accessed the control panel. I unplugged the lid switch mechanism from the control panel, unscrewed the grounding wire and went to feeling between the tub and the top of the washer skin for the lid switch. It fell into my hand in pieces. Either the jarring from the connex dropping off the flatbed broke it or my continued wrenching on it during moving it and attempted repairs did the trick. I'm guessing the latter.

I was pretty sure the switch was in working order - it just wasn't in the proper place to be activated by the lid pin when the lid was closed. I ran a test by manually engaging the lid switch with a screwdriver. The washer immediately entered the agitation cycle...scaring the shit out of me. I thought I'd been electrocuted. I jumped back – fell off the pallet, knocked over my ice tea and sent the screwdriver flying into the horse pen. Jack did not look impressed. There are times when I think I might be an embarrassment to that horse.

I don't have the patience to order another switch...especially since the problem wasn't the switch itself but the mounting bracket and screws holding the switch in place. A little super glue should fix it right up. Unless....unless I bypass it altogether. I've come this far, why not improve on it! I could bypass the switch...increase the wire gauge and amp up the agitation cycle 100 fold. Then I could insert a blue tooth component to sync with my phone and develop an app to control it remotely. Add some WiFi capability and I could potentially wash clothes from anywhere in the world! I truly am a washing machine repair genius.

Yeah...images of the Red Green show come to mind. Images of the washer machine suddenly exploding and vaulting toward space with me in it. “If you can't be handsome...be handy” doesn't really apply here, either. I think it best to skip the upgrades and stick with super glue and duct tape.

So now I have the pressure hose attached and the lid switch super glued, screwed and duct taped into it's proper place. It was go time. Attach the garden hose to the inlet, hang the drain hose over Miss Kitty's forks, fire up the generator and select the smallest load and fastest wash time on the knobs and pull up a chair. It might not hurt to have a bowl of holy water handy as well.

I am proud to announce the successful completion of a wash cycle from start to finish. It was a proud moment. A moment to strike joy in the heart of any true American Do-It-Your-Damn-Selfer. I can't help but imagine out there someplace – Red Green is nodding with approval as well.

That evening, I poured myself a small glass of Fireball and Cranberry Juice and settled into a reclining lawn chair. The stars began to push their way through the darkening night. Plumbing the shed for the washer could wait for tomorrow. In the meantime, I raised my glass in toast to all of the Do-It-Your-Selfers and to all of the Red Greens out there. Also a special toast for the lonely Maytag Repairman: “Here's to less lonely times for you. Might I suggest if you are truly bored...take up working on Kenmore's. I for one can attest to the experience being anything but mundane. And remember – if you can't be handy....be tenacious.

Trail Log: 10-24-2021

 

• Trail: Harquahala Observatory Trail
• Miles: 7.31
• Riders: Self - Cousin Phil
• Horses: Jack - Twister
• Dogs: Hank

Notes: Decided to haul to the Harquahala Observatory Trail head and show Phil the area. There are actually two routes up to the Observatory - one via four wheel drive - the other a hiking/packing trail. The original pack trail was used by the scientist to deliver supplies to them via mule string. The trail is rocky - steep and very technical on horseback. We turned around before it got too harry as to not push Twister. She's doing awesome. This is not the trail to undo the progress she has made. We stopped in Wenden for lunch at Crystals Cafe'. A super cute - eclectic diner with very good food. 

Trail Log: 10-18-2021

• Trail: Aguila - My property - State Land
• Miles: 5.8
• Riders: Self
• Horses: Jack and Nitro
• Dogs: Hank

Notes: I ponied Nitro out and ponied Drifter home. He was a bit of a punk today. Maybe because there are other horses in our pens and he wanted to stay behind with them. I ponied him a ways and then let him loose. He's always stayed fairly close. Today he turned around and took off running 9-0. He finally stopped about a quarter mile but wouldn't come back. He stood there whinnying his head off.  I finally went back and got him and drug his barn sour butt back out into the desert. He was kind of pissy and managed to get the rope under Jack's tail. Jack's used to a crupper but he wasn't too thrilled about it. I snubbed Nitro a little closer and proceeded on our way. He finally resigned to the fact that he wasn't talking us into going back any time soon. 

El Rancho Gitano Del Desierto

 CONFESSIONS OF A PIPE PILFERER

10-11-2021: I worked pulling mesquite from the arena until dark the evening before. It was ready for panels. Phil and I ran to Tractor Supply for T posts. We laid out the 64 panels I'd brought from Idaho to form my new arena and cross fence for a turn out area.

The wind had picked up considerably with little promise of dying down. We decided to call it a day and take in a movie at the Saguaro Theatre. I will say it again: You don't mess with the laws of physics without expecting some weird shit to happen in the cosmos and you don't kill off 007 and replace him with a her. Period. As stunningly beautiful as the gal is – I have no desire to see her shirtless. Maybe I could have overlooked it had Daniel Craig had more shirtless on-camera scenes. I fear I am turning into one of “those” old ladies. If so – I shall embrace it with gusto.

10-12-2021: Today was a day that will go down in the infamy of days here on El Rancho Gitano Del Desierto. Today my camo shipping container was unloaded from the flatbed. There is a god and today his name is Hoot.

We started out working on the arena and stopped when Hoot arrived with a semi load of hay for Crandall's and myself. Two squeezes for Crandall's and one for me. Until today, I didn't know what a squeeze was in regards to hay delivery. A squeeze is a cool piece of equipment similar to a big forklift. It has two giant arms that literally squeeze a 4 ton load of hay and place it pretty much anywhere you can get the thing maneuvered into.

Getting my shipping container on my flatbed and down to Arizona was stress in itself. I had no idea how to get it off once here and didn't really care. It was on my property with all my worldly junk and that was as far as I'd gotten. Phil got that “I have an idea” look in his eye as we watched Hoot unload hay. “Why don't you ask him if he has or knows of anybody with the equipment to unload your connex.”

Hoot was willing to give it a try if we did it now. It wasn't worth him coming back out with the equipment to do it. That's all the incentive I needed. Hoot had the chains. We needed pipe for rollers to put under the connex. I'd seen some pipe around here someplace. Maybe Crandall's. We buzzed over to Dave and Cindy's for a pipe scavenger hunt. We came up with one piece that by itself would not be enough. I was so close. There had to be more pipe around here somewhere.

Ah ha! Just across the fence at the neighbors - who shall remain nameless – lay three pieces of perfectly sized pipe. Sorry Blair and Cheri – there was no time to ask permission – it was faster to beg forgiveness later. I waved at whatever game cameras may or may not be recording the great pipe caper and squeezed through the fence...tossed three sections of pipe over and dashed back across the border. That was easy. Maybe this Sleepy Joe open border policy isn't all bad.

Hoot fed chains through the holes in the back of the connex and wrapped them around the arms of the squeeze. They slid the pipe between the flatbed and connex and gave me the ok to slowly pull forward. It sounded like Satan killing Satan as the connex scrapped backward off the flatbed. It started to go a little south as the connex began to veer off. Hoot used the arms of the squeeze to nudge it back on. None of us had done this before. We didn't know if it was best to ease it off slowly or go like hell. Hoot asked if there was anything breakable in there. I said nothing more important to me than getting this thing off of here. We opted to go like hell. I gunned it – more Satan killing Satan. I gunned it more until the connex ran out of flatbed and plopped down on the ground with more of a flop than a crash. It was done.

I didn't look in the connex until several days later. I am happy to report there was no major damage. My glass china cabinet survived as well as my grandma's green dishes. They only breakage was two oil lamb globes...easily replaceable at your local Family Dollar near you.

We ended the day at the Aguila Tuesday flea market...because well, it's Tuesday and that's what Aguila-ites do. Pickings are a little slim this time of year so we didn't find any treasures we could not live without. The music, however, is worth the trip alone. I don't understand a word of it but then again, I seldom understand lyrics in the language I actually speak. Learning Spanish is on my bucket list. I might as well. I fit in here more than anyplace I've been – and the more sun I get....the more I fit in.

10-13-2021: We finished the arena today! I could not have done it in near the time without Phil. What I didn't think of, he did and vice versa. Our Measurements came out practically to the inch. We intentionally had to make it 10 feet narrower at one end to avoid falling off a wash. You might not notice unless you are the one who built it and as Phil say's – the kind of people that would notice something like that probably have fancier places to be. 

I spent the evening on top my RV repairing a ripped awning over the slide out. The last big wind took advantage of a small tare and shredded it. Nothing a LOT of duct tape didn't fix and the view from atop my RV was spectacular.

10-15-2021: I had enough panels left over to put in a cross fence for the horse turn out. We only had to put in 9 panels. Due to more uneven ground, those 9 turned out harder to put in than the entire arena.

Then – there were the ants. Giant, mutant ants. Giant, mutant MEAN ants. They warn you about the rattlesnakes – the scorpions – the jumping cholla – the tarantulas and the tarantula hawks...but nobody says a damn thing about the freaking mutant ants! One crawled up the full length of me and bit me on the throat. It's the burn that keeps on giving. Phil's like: “I told you they bite.” His daughter had been bit earlier. I kind of thought he was exaggerating a tad on the effects. I stand corrected! I'm freaking out telling him the location of all my epi pens...you know, just in case! There's one in my truck – one in my saddle bags...one in the medicine cabinet in the RV. Phil...are you listening Phil? Do people die from ant bites? I bet they do!

Friends Cindi and Fred are down for the winter. I will be watching a couple of their horses while they are in Buckeye at the finals rodeo. They invited me for dinner at the Coyote. I am excited they are here. They are good people...and if they noticed the giant freak show ant induced goiter on my neck – they were kind enough not to mention it. Good people.

10-17-2021: I may have a talent after-all:pipe pilfering. I can't sing and I can't dance; a girl's got to accept a talent when she can. I've been looking for a couple short sections of 6' metal pipe to put over the PVC pipe stands to the spigots. Ask and ye shall receive. While checking on Crandall's property during my daily walk – I remembered where I'd seen pipe. Exactly what I was looking for lay nearly buried in one of the washes on their place. I've been tripping over them for two years. I dug them out – dumped the sand out of them and threw them in the back of my truck.

I know what it feels like to have someone steal a beloved hunk of metal off your property. I thought it best to make sure Dave wasn't as attached to his scrap metal as I am. I sent him a text: “Forgive me Dave, for I have sinned. I've pilfered the pipe from your wash. If you would like them back..” Dave: “No worries. Help yourself.” Sweet! I've always admired those hitching posts over yonder....

El Rancho Gitano Del Desierto

Danny DeVito as Tomb Raider!

Recent experience has made me more than a little gun shy when it comes to taking a person up on offers of help. That's a story for another time I suppose. Suffice it to say – Cousin Phil is not “other people.” I have deduced he is either: 1. A glutton for punishment or 2. He is bored out of his ever loving mind. He assures me it's more 2 with just a tad bit of 1 to keep things interesting. You can take him at his word. If he say's he wants to do something – he means it. There is no ulterior motive. He's just as likely to tell you to take a flying leap if it's something he doesn't want to do. That's how people should be, in my book. No misunderstandings – no surprises. It sure makes life less complicated.

With that in mind, when Phil shows up most every day to help put in a water line, work on the arena or cross fence a pasture...I try very hard not to work him to death. Not only would doing so leave me without an awesome friend and cheap laborer – but I'm more than a little afraid of what his daughter, Jessie, would do to the person directly responsible for his demise. Kill you and bury you in her back yard is what she would do... and rightfully so. You don't mess with Jessie's dad. 

We try to mix a little fun in with the the weeks work schedule. Some mornings we saddle up and ride. Other day's we run to Wickenburg to shop, pick up supplies or have dinner. We spent one afternoon in Buckeye and watched the local rodeo. Another evening we watched a movie at the Saguaro Theatre in Wickenburg. If you haven't yet seen the latest Bond movie: No Time To Die – stop reading now. If you have seen it or have no interesting in seeing it ever...continue on.

You are still here so I assume you've seen it already or you are not a 007 fan. While I'm not a die hard fan, I appreciate any chance to see Daniel Craig shirtless. With that said....WTF were they thinking? You do not kill off an international icon and replace them with a seven foot tall black woman. Before you accuse me of being racist – I am most certainly not. But replacing Sean and Daniel with a giant female is like replacing Tomb Raider with Danny DeVito. It is simply not done.

10-10-21: The disadvantage to living off the grid is you don't have a real address. Residents of Aguila are required to obtain a PO box if they want to receive mail. For packages, UPS manages to find most of us out here. Until now, most packages delivered to the Rancho De Vaqueros via UPS end up at Crandall's. The UPS driver said it would be a good idea to put up a sign pointing to my property with my name on it. Challenge accepted.

I don't have much building materials with me since moving. I got rid of most everything I own sans sentimental items and a few tools. Combine that with the scarcity of wood in these parts and coming up with a quick sign before my next Amazon delivery was proving difficult.

My first attempt was a piece of cardboard with my name, an arrow pointing to my place and “UPS this way!” written in permanent marker tied to a T post with baling twine. It lasted less than 10 seconds...ripping off in the wind.

Most difficult in my quest for sign making material was preventing Phil from swiping county barricade sandwich boards and anything else not nailed down. Actually – it could be nailed down and he'd still try to rip it out of the ground. “Nobody's used this in years. It won't be missed.” Phil...I spent 21 years in prison. I ain't going back. Get in the truck.

Phil showed up on a morning we planned to ride with an old pallet and a piece of oddly shaped plywood. He “claims” they were just laying around on a vacant lot near his property. I didn't question it. I figure I wasn't with him when he “found” them and couldn't be considered an accessory in the commission of a crime that may or may not have taken place. I've rehearsed this story over and over should it become necessary.

I set about making my sign. A little white paint – a thick black permanent marker and a handful of torx screws and the most beautiful sign a girl could imagine unfolded beneath my hands.

I drug the pallet sign to the head of my driveway - sunk two T posts pallet width apart and slipped the sign over the posts. There it was. A beacon pointing to what has become my off the grid abode: “El Rancho Gitano Del Desierto.” It brings a tear to my eye – mostly from fear that Dave Crandall is going to kill me.

As my basket of laundry sat on one side of the sign and Hank on the other – I snapped a picture for prosperity...and to post it on Facebook because well...something that epic needs to be shared on Facebook. I captioned the photo: “The only thing that would make this photo more awesome is if Hank were a southern blue tick hound.” Dave's reply was easily the best Facebook comment of all time: “ My god we have to get some subdivision covenants in place !”

El Rancho Gitano Del Desierto

 

10-8-2021: It doesn't matter what tool or item I need at the moment – the odds are somewhere around 98.7% probability that while I indeed posses the item, said item is stored elsewhere. I call this phenomenon the: “It's in my other trailer.” Whether or not this phenomenon has scientifically been proven, is irrelevant. It exists in my world and I'm getting it put on a T shirt.

The above “It's in my other trailer” phenomenon has become less of an issue now that I'm moved on to my property and have contained my trailers, connex and critters within my 5 acres. What items I left behind in Eastern Oregon will simply need to be duplicated.

In the meantime, being semi settled means getting my butt in gear and setting up this place. The first item is an arena. I am happy...ecstatic really...to report that there are no rocks on my five acres of desert. That's right...none...zip... ZERO. What we do have here is mesquite trees and grease wood. The grease wood – also called kerosene brush for it's flammability – is easy enough to remove. The mesquite...not so much.

Ideally, I would have hired someone with a backhoe to dig out the mesquite. Trying to hire anything done is practically impossible these days. Half of the people are getting paid too much to not go to work and the other half are so busy trying to fill in for the socialist weenies milking the system - they are months out. Fortunately, Miss Kitty voted for Trump and I brought her to Arizona with me.

Mesquite roots are not particularly deep but they are exceedingly long and incredibly sinewy. If Miss Kitty couldn't dig them out with the bucket, I'd wrap a chain around the roots and pull them out. Some roots snaked out of the ground in one piece over 30' long. Others I had to dig down as far as possible and cut them off with a saws-all.

The dead mesquite is no easier to remove than the live stuff. The roots turn hard as concrete when dead and tough and sinewy when green. You can't pull it up or cut it off. Swearing at it doesn't help either. I've tried. A lot.

I did learn something new. Scorpions make their homes in dead mesquite roots. Underground. Waiting for the unsuspecting arena builder to be sitting on her butt, legs braced against the sand with a mesquite root in both hands pulling with all her might spewing profanities. That's when the most ominous looking arachnida on the planet decides to crawl up arena builders shoe onto her knee. Do you know how close your face is to your knee when you are in such a position? TO FREAKING DAMN CLOSE!

As I often do when encountering new species, I googled scorpions. Interesting invertebrates. There are approximately 1,750 species of scorpions and 25 of those are known to have venom capable of killing a person. Whether or not the one hiking up my knee was one of the 25...I hope to never find out. They are capable of surviving up to 12 months without food and excrete very little waste. I guess the two would go hand in hand: Don't eat...don't poop.

Scorpions normally reproduce in the usual manner. Boy meets girl...girl bats eyelashes. One thing leads to another... However, some species reproduce through parthenogenesis....a process in which unfertilized eggs develop into live little scorpling embryos! CREEPY! I like the word “scorpling” though. I think I shall use it the next time I need to describe a kid I don't like.

For those scorpions lucky enough to reproduce the good old fashioned way – the 'event' can take from 1 to over 25 hours. Once complete – the male typically retreats. Real shocker there. Now...I can't help but envision the Arachnologist tasked with the study of such matters. He in his white lab coat and horn rimmed glasses watching this arachnida version of the “promenade a' deux “ and wishing, for just a moment....

I'd had enough of mesquite roots and invertebrates for one day. When Cousin Phil called and said they were thinking of going to Bar 7 for drinks, I agreed to go along. I needed a break. I jumped in the shower to wash off the dust and smell of mesquite. Each time I turn on the faucet or flush the toilet in my newly plumbed abode, I'm thrilled and a little nervous. It's a satisfying feeling knowing the water coming through the pipe is one you put in yourself...and just a little shocked when the thing doesn't sprout a geyser somewhere along the line.

Bar 7 was packed. The waitress said we would have to move from the only available table if a large group came in. Move where? It was the only table. The dishwasher/bus boy took pity on us and managed to find a table on the outdoor patio sporting the live band. He led us to a table tucked in the far back corner.

While I learned a little about scorpions earlier in the day – I learned a lot about tequila in the afternoon. Mostly that I have a one margarita limit. Anything after that and they give me a headache. Plus, I cannot be responsible for what comes out of my mouth. I find this odd. I can drink whiskey all night long with little effect. One margarita and I'm ready to dance on the tables. Two margarita's and I'm accusing a guy on his first date of being a serial killer. Yep.

We weren't long into the evening...somewhere towards the end of my first margarita and the start of my second– when a couple asked if they could sit at our table. All others were full. We obliged. I could tell this was a fairly new relationship and felt it was very much my business to ask them about it. “So...you guys appear to be newly weds or newly daters?” They replied that yes, they had known each other for an entire hour. “Huh...so your saying..” I think Phil kicked me under the table. I stopped before verbalizing my train of thought. You can't blame me for thinking it...the guy was sporting a thousand dollar watch and flashing 100 dollar bills like they were confetti. I reformed my next question: “So how did you meet?” They met on a dating site: Match.com. “Oh really...cool. I didn't know you could rent...” Yep, pretty sure Phil kicked me again. “So...what's your names?” His name was Daryl - her name was Marie. Marie was WAY too attractive for Daryl. I thought he should know this. “Just so you know, Daryl...Marie is WAY out of your league.” Damn it Phil...stop kicking me.

I watched the couple as the evening progressed. Marie was all over Daryl like hair on an ape. Marie scooted closer with every 100 bill Daryl pulled out of his wallet. I realize I can be somewhat hyper- vigilant. Paranoid, really. More so toward the bottom of my second margarita. It didn't help that I had been listening to the news about the alarming number of woman falling victim to serial killers using dating sites as their medium. I leaned across the table so Daryl could hear and see the intensity in my steely gaze: “Daryl...if I see Marie's face on the news as a missing person, you are in big trouble, Mr! I never forget a face. I will hunt you down. You can only HOPE the police find you first.” Dang...tequila not only gives me false bravado – but I can no longer feel Phil kicking me in the shin.

Daryl asked where we were from...we asked Daryl where they were from. Or maybe I asked...Phil was too busy kicking the shit out of me under the table. Marie was from Phoenix...Daryl from Wickenburg. He had recently sold the West Plaza shopping complex. The same complex where I do my laundry. The same laundromat that hasn't had a working dryer in the two years I've been here. I thought I should bring that up to Daryl. “So...did you fix the goddamn dryers before you sold it!?” Phil stopped kicking me and just shook his head.

El Rancho Gitano Del Desierto

     GARBAGE CANS AND LITTLE THINGS 

10-5-2021: Just because you don't own an actual house, does not mean you get a pass on the financial pitfalls and general frustrations of home ownership. The only difference between stick built home repairs and RV repairs is the latter is twice as hard to maintain and three times as expensive. On my last trip down south, the water heater in my RV sprung a leak. The old tank had rusted through spraying water all over the underside of the storage compartment. I didn't have time to deal with it so I jerked it out, took it to Arizona Auto Tech in Wickenburg and got a hotel for the night. I told them I'd be back for a new one in a week or so.

The little things cost enough to be lined with gold...if they were at least they wouldn't rust! But...you can't put a price on a hot shower after digging trench all day in the dust and wind. That hot shower was worth every penny of the almost $800.00 bill. It's always something.

With the trench dug and the pipe laid, it was time to back fill the trench. Mother nature, however, was uncooperative at best. There is nothing quite like a good Arizona thunderstorm. The rolling thunder and lightening is awe inspiring. When it rains here...it gets with it. I'd no more than fire up the tractor when another storm would hit. By the second big rain, the pipe was floating in the trench. I had to give up – park Miss Kitty under cover and run for for shelter. By the time I reached my RV, still parked at Crandall's – I could not have been wetter. It actually felt kind of good after wallowing in the dust the last few days.

10-6-2021: The storms the day before did wonders for the ground. It settled the dust and packed down the powdery roads to a firm base that doesn't require four wheel drive to negotiate. The trench dried out enough that the pipe was no longer floating. I back drug a section of the trench going into the area I would soon move my RV into. I was anxious to get it and my horses moved onto our new digs.

Cousin Phil borrowed a fifth wheel/goose neck converter thingie from his son-in-law, Brett. Handy gadget if not a pain in the ass to put on. It weighs about as much as a small Buick. It has a ring type adapter that bolts on to the fifth wheel hitch. The actual converter part, that weighs a ton and a half, slips over the adapter thingie and is secured by four large bolts. The hard part is holding it up there while it's bolted down. Phil wrestled around with it while I attempted to bolt it on. Phil is not a small man and not short on strength...but trying to hold the thing in just the right spot was not doing his back any good. We finally came up with the idea of using the trailer jacks to “jack” it up and hold it in place. It worked like a charm albeit a little wobbly. Afterwards, I had the brilliant idea to use Miss Kitty to hoist and hold it up. It would have been even more brilliant had I thought of it before.

We set about preparing the RV to move across the street to my property. I don't know when the RV was moved last – but most everything requiring movement to unfastened required lot of WD-40 before it was over.

You would have thought I was about to move into a castle complete with a mote full of alligators. I was giddy backing that rolling castle into it's new resting spot on my property. Normally I cannot back up a rig with somebody watching. Today, I didn't care if the whole world saw. I backed it in, leveled it as best we could and hooked up the water. My castle was ready for move in.

With the RV in, we drove into Wickenburg for corner hay feeders and to purchase my very own garbage can. It's the little things in life that bring me the most joy. My very own garbage can. Life does not get much better.

That evening, I sat outside my RV with a cup of hot tea and watched the horses clean up their dinner. The silence was broken by the eerily soothing yip of coyotes in the near distance. I leaned back and closed my eyes. We did it Hank. We are home.

Trail Log: 10-10-2021

The view of my property looking SE

• Trail: Aguila - State Land - My property
• Miles: 9.75
• Riders: Self - Phil
• Horses: Jack - Drifter - Twister
• Dogs: Hank

We ventured out farther today since Twister was not negatively effected by the last ride. She appears to quickly be back to her old self. Pretty spunky little mare. Phil hasn't ridded out here much so I took us south toward the power line and then west to what I call Burrow Canyon. It was a beautiful day. I still have a hard time believing I actually live here now. 

Twister wasn't sure about Drifter at first - he's growing on her. 

Trail Log: 10-7-2021

 

• Trail: Aguila State Land - My property
• Miles: 6.7
• Riders: Self - Phil 
• Horses: Jack - Twister
• Dogs: Hank

Notes: Cousin Phil hauled over to  my place for a short ride. His mare, Twister, has been lame for the last year or so. He tried a different shoer who put on special shoes that brought her front end up a bit. So far it appears to be working as she moved right out. 

I opted to leave Drifter at home so it didn't cause problems with Phil's horse. It's nice not to have to pony all the time, too. 

El Rancho Gitano Del Desierto

NORMAN AND THE PURPLE PRIMER CURSE 

10-3-2021:  Walmart's got nothing on The Family Dollar here in Aguila. You run into some interesting characters. I can't help but wonder if those characters are always around or I just happen to attract them.

I've been living out of the Dollar store since my arrival a week ago. They have everything a person needs to survive for the most part. Especially if a person has a cast iron stomach. I do not. I have to be careful when perusing the meat section in particular. I've never seen bacon with quite the green'ish hue to it as can be found at the FD. Like every self respecting red blooded American – I love bacon, but I'm going to have to pass until I get to Safeway.

I pushed my cart down the housewares isle...or as close to housewares as I could determine. The FD does not pride itself on it's merchandising or organizational skills. If you need it, they probably have it, but your going to have to work to find it. I love a good treasure hunt...maybe that's why I get a kick out of shopping there.

My search this day entailed light bulbs and Kleenex. I found the Kleenex several isles west of the paper goods section and light bulbs buried on the bottom shelf of the toy isle. “Keep out of reach of Children” prominently stamped on the box face. Of course they would be here.

A man pushing a cart passed by my isle...abruptly stopped...backed up and turned his cart my direction. He pushed the cart with both hands evenly spaced and stared straight ahead. He was dressed in beige from his shirt to his tennis shoes. His skin and hair color the same neutral tone.

His narrow shoulders seemed fused straight down too his knees. If it weren't for the light brown belt holding up his high waist slacks...you might think he had no waist at all. His legs bent out in an upside down V from the knees to his duck-toed walk. As he walked, it appeared as if he did so from the knees down only...in sort of a shuffle fashion.

He had a cheerful if not odd aura about him as he shuffled toward me and stopped inches from my cart. He leaned forward a bit, squint eyed and spoke in a heavy, New York type accent. I don't know how to type a New York accent – so your just going to have to imagine it. “YOU LOOK LIKE THAT ACCTRESS. WHAT'S HER NAME. I CAN'T THINK. I''LL GET IT. IT'LL COME TO ME. YOU LOOK LIKE HER THOUGH. I LIKE HER. SHE'S A GOOD ACTRESS. THE MOVIES SHES IN ARENT COMEING TO ME RIGHT NOW. I'LL THINK OF IT. I LIKE HER. SHE'S A GOOD ONE. HANG ON. I'LL BE BACK “

Norman...I'm going to call him Norman. He just reminds me of a Norman. Maybe it's because he sounds a lot like Billy Crystal and I just watched City Slickers the other day. So Norman...abruptly reverses his cart and shuffles around the corner.

A few minutes later, Norman shuffles back. “SANDRA BULLOCK. THAT'S HER. YOU LOOK JUST LIKE HER. OK WELL. THAT'S ALL.”

Norman reverses his cart and shuffles backwards from the knees down around the isle corner and is gone in a New York second. Well, I'll be damned. I guess there are worse people to resemble. Phyllis Diller or Whoopie Goldberg come to mind.

Norman continued to shuffle his cart around the store as I made my way to the checkout. I could hear his loud, New York accent from the hallway leading to the bathrooms. A large printout hung on each door: BATHROOMS OUT OF ORDER. Norman bangs his cart against a door. “WHY AREN'T THE BATHROOMS OPEN. DO I NEED A KEY OR SOMETHING. WHERE'S THE KEY. WHAT'S WRONG WITH THE BATHROOMS.” He spoke in more direct statements than actually posing any questions. He made me chuckle.

I ran my debit card, gathered up my bagged items and headed for the exist. As I pushed open the heavy glass doors, a heavily accented voice rang out from somewhere in the Family Dollar isles: “GOODBYE SANDRA!!”

10-4-2021: It is time to get things moving along. I'd been waiting until Monday to run into Ewing Landscaping in Surprise for the material to put in the water line to my horses and RV. My shipping container is yet to be removed from the flatbed. Karen and Jeff graciously offered to loan me their 16' bumper pull.

My friend, Cousin Phil, agreed to meet at my place by 7:00 AM to ride into Surprise with me. I can't remember exactly why we call him Cousin Phil. I think it had to do with an introduction years ago that involved a guy with the same last name but actually no relation. Cousin Phil just stuck. I think he can consider himself lucky his last name wasn't the same as one of our female shooting friends or “Auntie Phil” may have stuck!

Phil has moved to Arizona full time along with his daughter Jess and son-in-law, Brett. They will be living a short 20 minutes from me. I'm pretty excited about that. It's nice to have family and friends somewhat close. Especially until the rest of my clan gets here for the winter.

Phil and I pulled into Jeff and Karen's around 8:00 AM. Jeff helped Phil hook up the trailer while Karen ran in the house after some “bagged goodies” she had for us. Now, I've spent the last few months in Oregon. You can understand I might be a little gun shy when somebody offers up a “bag” of anything. I was ecstatic and more than a little relieved, when the “bag of goodies” comprised of half a dozen pretzel sticks dipped in caramel and wrapped in every sinful candied-chocolate morsel you can imagine. We call them SOAPS (sex on a pretzel stick). Karen is a phenomenal baker and SOAPS are my favorite of her creations.

I know what I need for various projects – but I seldom know the technical terms. Pipe, fittings and spigot types are no exception. I know I need elbows, T's and reducers. I need the pipe with the flared end so I don't have to use separate splicer thingies. I'll need the blue and the purple goop to stick it all together and a little roll of the white tape stuff for the threaded connections.

We managed to get most of the correct pipe, fittings and PVC cement. When it came to spigots however, a different story. If you want to get a really weird look from people...ask an Arizonian if they sell stop and waste spigots. Deer in the headlights. No response. How about a frost free? “Frost? We don't get frost here in this part of Arizona ma'am.” Pardon me, son...but yes WE do. It freezes for 20 minutes most every morning in the winter season between 5:45 AM and 6:05 AM. I know. That's when I clean pens and fill water troughs. If you don't leave a light over the pump, you won't have water for 20 minutes and Dave will dock your pay.

We finished out our supply list at Lowe's complete with red flagging for the 4' overhang of pipe. Back at the ranch – Phil looked at the trench: “I don't think that's deep enough.” He's right. The ditcher digs fairly deep – but the dirt dumps back into the trench..filling it with soft dirt from it's wake. I'd have to use Miss Kitty's bucket and scoop out the loose dirt. It didn't take too long. Two good scoops for every bucket width and the 360' trench was good to go.

We laid out the material and discovered we were missing one connector that fits between the 1.5” pipe and the ¾ “ reducer. Not wanting to drive clear to Wickenburg, Phil would try Adolfo's Hardware in Aguila. Much like the Family Dollar – if Adolfo doesn't have it – you probably don't need it. I finished the trench while Phil headed for town. Adolfo did indeed have the part we needed.

I have yet to finish a plumbing project without spilling the purple primer and/or blue PVC cement. We were doing good up to the very last fitting. We should have had purple and blue goo to spare. True to all good curses – somehow the purple primer got upended spilling 90% of it. Fortunately, the cement is thicker consistency....when I reached for the primer and knocked the cement over, it didn't spill out nearly as much. Thankfully, we were able to manipulate that little round dobber to pick up enough purple primer to finish the job. If anyone finds themselves primer poor but shy cement - have  our people call my people. 

By the time we were finished, I was blue and purple from my fingers to elbows. I can't seem to do anything without making a total mess. If I ever washed my face before going into town, nobody would recognize me. Not necessarily a bad thing most days.

It was the moment of truth. Time to charge the line and check for leaks. My water comes from a shared well over 1300 feet to the south. That is a lot of pipe and potential problems. I turned the water on at the source and walked the trench keeping fingers and toes crossed. Satisfied there were no issues, I headed back to the RV for the night. I'd leave the water on...if there were still no issues by morning – the trench could be back-filled. I was one step closer to moving onto my property. One step closer to living my dream. 

El Rancho Gitano Del Desierto

EQUINE WATER BOARDING

9-28-2021: I set the alarm for 5:00 AM. I don't know why I bothered - I was awake by 4:00. I had originally planned to drive the 4.5 hours to Alamo and camp for the night. That would put me in Alamo late morning. I'd be twiddling my thumbs the rest of the day. I opted instead to drive on in to Aquila. A good 11 hour drive if you avoid Vegas and drive through the Lake Mead National Park. It's a pretty drive and worth the extra 45 minutes- plus it's free if your coming from Overton heading South; otherwise it is a toll of $35.00 to pass through the park.

I woke in Wells to howling wind. Everything is harder in the wind it seems. From Alfalfa flakes blowing back in your face to blowing dust. I fed the horses early enough to allow them time to eat before loading. Horses aren't typically fans of the wind, either. Trying to lead two of them through multiple narrow barn doors that kept blowing back on us was a lot of fun...if your into that sort of sadistic activity.

Things at the trailer didn't go much better. I struggled to open the loading door...pulling with everything I had against the wind. When it finally opened far enough for the wind to catch it - it jerked me off my feet and slammed me into Drifter. For a yearling, that guy is awful patient. On the up side – the wind pinned the door open. As long as it didn't shift on us, we should be good if we hurry.

Jack did not get the memo regarding the need to hurry. In 13 years that horse has never refused to load. Normally, he loads himself – I toss the lead over his back and he jumps in. Not today. He'd had enough. If he figured out we still had two thirds of the way to go, we'd never make it out of Wells.

It was still dark out so I flipped on the trailer light hoping that would work. It didn't. I tried a few tricks I've seen other people use on hard to load horses. I walked him in a circle...I backed him up...I tried coaxing him with cookies...nothing. About the only thing left was brute force and I wasn't going there. I've never found the need to force my horses to do something they refuse. 1200 lbs vs. 120 lbs (It's my blog – I can lie if I want to) - it's a battle I'm not going to win.

Right off hand, I can't think of any place I'd rather not live than Wells Nevada. It is, in my opinion – the shit hole of all shit holes. I closed my eyes against the blowing dust and plopped down on the trailer floor with lead rope in hand. Jack dropped his head and nuzzled my face. “Please get in the trailer Jack. I'm tired and I want to go home. I don't want to live in Wells Nevada. I heard they eat horses here.” Call it luck...call it coincidence...call it whatever the hell you like - but I know that horse understood every word I said. He gingerly stepped around me and into the trailer. He then looked back at me sitting on my behind like I was the obstinate ass. Holy shit...he's in. I leapt to my feet – cracked my head on the open partition and slammed it shut before he changed his mind. Drifter piled in as soon as I untied his lead. I hastily fastened the butt chain, pushed the door shut and said a quick prayer of thanks to the horse gods.

Once behind the wheel – more prayers were in order. I've had to randomly jump start my truck the last few days. You might think a normal person in such circumstance would purchase new batteries before heading out on a 1200 mile journey with two horses and a dog. I doubt anyone would accuse me of being normal. I just wanted out of town. Period. I carry a small battery jump starter for emergencies. It hadn't failed me yet. Just get me to Aguila and I'll buy new batteries in Wickenburg.

I at least had the forethought to unplug anything in my truck the night before that might drain the batteries: The SiriusXM – GPS – Phone Chargers – radio and dome light switched off. “Please start...please start...please start.” Wait for the glow plugs to warm up...say a little prayer and turn the key. The old Dodge fired right up. “Hang on Hankster...we are out of here." 

I held my breath every time I stopped to fuel up...which is a lot when your only getting 9 miles to the gallon. Yikes. The Dodge didn't fail us but my checking account certainly felt the drain.

Somewhere around 11 hours of FOX syndicated News, Comedy Central and Willie's Roadhouse, we pulled into Aquila Arizona. Dusk had settled in. There would have been just enough light left to unload the horses and get settled in for the night...if only Drifter would get out of the damn trailer. While Jack wouldn't get in earlier – Drifter wouldn't get out! Again...he usually loads and unloads like a dream! I made sure he would back out not long after I brought him home. He is now too big to turn around. He started to back but changed his mind mid stream. You've got to be kidding. We were so close and I was so tired. I considered pulling the trailer into the arena, propping the door open and checking him in the morning. I might have...but Jack couldn't get out until that little black booger got out first. Like Jack, he didn't throw a fit or freak out – he just wouldn't move. I braced my back against Jack's butt and pushed against Drift's chest with my foot. That didn't work – but he now knows how to untie shoes.

I got in front of him and jumped up and down waving my arms. He thought that was fun and mimicked me (or perhaps mocked is more accurate) by bobbing his head up and down and wiping horse cooties on my shirt.

This went on until it was now pitch black out. Great. I considered opening Jacks partition and squeezing Drifter against the wall so Jack could get out. Pretty sure there are multiple ways that method could go wrong.

Exasperation breeds ingenuity...at least that's what I'm calling it. Before any “horsey trainers” start to criticize what is about to unfold – it worked; and no humans or little black boogers were harmed during the process. I didn't want to risk scaring or hurting him. The only thing I could think of at the time was: I'll annoy him out of the trailer!

I took a bottle of water and squirted it on his nose. I stopped if he took a step back...continued if he took a step forward. Three times of this equine water boarding and he backed right on out calm as can be. The horse whisperer's got nothing on a tired old lady that just want's to crawl in bed for a week.

SOMETHING AIN'T RIGHT

10-1-2021: I spent the first couple of days transferring junk from my LQ to my RV and organizing more junk between Crandall's and my property. If there's anything I've learned in the last year, it's I have too much junk. That is saying something after getting rid of a good 85% of said junk when I sold my place in Idaho. A person realizes just how little they need when living in an 8' short-wall for a couple of years.

I will be staying in my RV on Crandall's until I finish the water line on my property. Hoping to have that done within the week. I dug the trench to the RV spot and horse area using Miss Kitty and a ditcher. I had the 300 foot trench dug in under10 minutes. No rocks and a shallow frost line in this area is a far cry from digging on my place in Oregon! I unearthed one rock. I had to get off the tractor and visually verify that it was indeed a rock. I think somebody brought it in from someplace else....or the damn thing followed me from Oregon.

I've done as much damage as I can until I head to Surprise for pipe. I saddled Jack and headed for the State Land bordering my property with Drifter and Hank in tow.

Jack was feeling his wheaties. He was on a mission to go somewhere. Drifter is not a slow walker but had to trot to keep up. I let him go so I didn't have to pull on his face. The first thing he did was bump into a cholla. A blob stuck on his face and several spines stuck in his fetlock. Normally I would wait until we got home to pull them out, but he likes to rub his face on Jack's flank or my leg when we are headed down the trail. You can see where that might be a train wreck. He'd head toward us with that big blob of cholla just aching to implant itself on Jack's butt and get me ejected. We'd take off running beyond is reach. It's fast coming to the time when Jack his hard pressed to outrun him...he has some legs on him. I dismounted, called him to me and removed the cholla from his face and legs.

We rode onto my property before heading back to Crandall's. I showed the horses their new digs. Jack wasn't impressed. The arena panels and giant camo connex sitting on a flatbed could possibly eat horses. As we wandered around the property – something felt off. I can't explain it. Sure...it was rapidly changing as I added more of my stuff and started to set things up...it wasn't that. I don't know what it was. Something was just off. I chalked it up to my overactive imagination and headed for camp. 

DISSAPPEARING YARD ART AND SUBTERRANEAN MESQUITE MONSTERS

10-2-2021: We are slowing getting back into somewhat of a routine. Each morning, while it's still cool – Hank and I take a walk on the State land bordering my property. Some mornings we walk out and contemplate life with Sam the Saguaro. Sam's perspective of life is somewhat limited...seeing as he hasn't ventured from the same spot in 150 years. Still, I enjoy bantering with him in his stoic and often prickly manner.

Today we headed west outside the gate instead of south towards Sam. I don't often go this way as it's not as pretty and takes you back toward civilization. Not that there is a lot of civilization here in Aguila. This brought us to the NW corner of my property. I stopped dead in my tracks. What the hell? It's gone! Some low life scum bag piece of shit stole my yard art!

When I first ventured onto this property I would later come to purchase – I fell in love with a big hunk of rusty metal somebody had fashioned into a backdrop for target practice. Crandall's said it was there when they first came to this area. Nobody really knows what it's original use was. I'm guessing it was part of an old car frame or railroad track with a sheet of ¾ steel welded to it. A hook was fashioned at the top presumably for hanging targets. Anyway – I thought it was the coolest thing ever. I joked with Grandov's and their Realtor that I would buy the place only if they threw in the “yard art.”

I scoured the area. Somebody had to have taken it from across the state land fence line or the property bordering mine to the north. The gate into our properties is locked. It has to be several people big enough to heft that thing over the fence. The fence is slightly bowed on top but that could be from anything. I supposed they could have hooked onto it with a tractor bucket and got it over the fence. It was taken before that last big rain as there is no trace it was ever there. Just a big pile of lonely dirt where my yard art use to sit.

Whoever took it had to be somebody from around this area. You would have to be running around on the property behind me or on State Land to even see it. They would also have to know that nobody was around. They are just damn lucky I didn't catch them doing it on the previous three impromptu trips I took in the last several months. I'm a decent shot and pretty good with a backhoe! :(

Spot formerly known as my yard art. :(

I was...I am, furious. It was just a rusty hunk of metal...but it was my rusty hunk of metal! It might as well been the Hope Diamond. I'm guessing some tweaker sold it as scrap for blow money. Even if I don't find them....Karma will..and if I were them...I'd hope for Karma.

There was nothing I could do about my missing yard art and I couldn't get pipe until the following week. I needed to stay busy or I'd make myself nuts stewing about it. I set about clearing the mesquite where my arena will go.

Clearing ground in this area is a far cry different than clearing the ground on my place in Halfway. There are no rocks. The dirt is more like sand. What we do have here is mesquite roots that reach into the next county.

What lies above ground is deceivingly benign compared to what lies below. I came upon a scraggly few sprouts of mesquite sticking no more than six inches above ground. I dug around the base and wrapped a chain around it. Miss Kitty backed halfway across the arena before she pulled the last of the tap roots out of the dirt. It's almost creepy. I half expect to pull up some subterranean creature from the center of the earth clinging to the root. Actually...that would be kind of cool. It's not rusty metal yard art cool....but still cool.