Notes: Random short rides behind my property. Blessed to be able to saddle up at the spur of the moment and ride out our back gate onto State Trust Land. It's the best way for me to unwind/de-stress and hopefully get away from the human factor. I've decided I am not cut out for public consumption. There are times when it's best for all concerned when I get my hermit on. Looking forward to longer hours of daylight.
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| Growing into his tack |
Notes: Worked with Drifter in the arena and round corral over at Crandall's. Took him for our first solo ride in the desert. He walks out really nice and didn't act buddy or barn sour even with Jack back at the barn talking to him.
Notes: Took a nice afternoon ride. Headed south beyond the power line to see if I could meet up with Blair and Cheri - already up on the mountain. I did not run into them but I found some cool rock formations and finally came upon their tracks on my way back off the mountain. Pretty rocky up that high but nothing Jack the mountain goat couldn't handle. Beautiful day...beautiful ride.
Merry Christmas Mrs. Godwin
You would think for as much as I write, a Christmas letter would be a breeze. It isn't. Not counting the occasional obituary, it is by far the hardest piece of writing for me to undertake. One: It is too structured. It almost feels like an “assignment” to me. I don't do assignments. I've been out of school for more years than I care to think about and assignments went out the window the day I graduated. Truth be told...probably long before I graduated. I gave up on formal education the day my first grade teacher spanked me on the first day of school. Her name was Mrs. Godwin. Yep...remember it like yesterday. I never went to kindergarten, so first grade was the first experience of being caged in a structured environment where daydreaming was considered the devils thoughts and the inability to sit still an equally demonic possession. Mrs. Godwin was not an educator...she was an exorcist.
One box of Kleenex ruined public school for the next 12 years. That fateful box of Kleenex sat perched on the edge of Mrs. Godwin's desk begging to be utilized. This may have literally been my first day of school....but I remember the school supply list and it contained several boxes of Kleenex. Kleenex bought and paid for with my parents hard earned dollars. As far as I was concerned, that box of Kleenex she was hording could very well have been mine...and I needed one!
I approached the desk...which to the shyest kid ever born...was difficult enough. I willed myself into invisibility and plucked a Kleenex. One would not do. I wasn't born with one of those cute little perky noses they compare with “a button.” I inherited my dads nose. A real nose...one that sits prominent and proud against my face and leaks like a broken faucet. I pulled another...and another. Mrs. Godwin, in perfectly pressed lace blouse buttoned to the neck and with pious tone: “That will be quite enough, Laurel.”
Of course she called me by my birth name. I freaking hated that name. I don't answer to it now and I didn't answer to it then. I stared at her...my hand hoovering over the next Kleenex primed to be plucked from the box. She stared back. “Sit down, Laurel.” There it was again. She was mocking me. I never took my eyes off hers. Slowly my hand descended upon the Kleenex...the soft tissue of rebellion sandwiched between thumb and forefinger. And then, like some force from the universe sent to test my resolve against that of Mrs Godwin's...the Kleenexes linked together in a train of 2-ply insurrection. I couldn't stop it if I tried.
She was on me faster than a priest can utter: “begone ye Satan.” She grabbed my arm with one hand, jerked me around and swatted my fanny with the other: “SIT. DOWN. NOW!”
My mom asked me that night how I liked my first day of school. I replied: “I hate it. My teacher beats me and I ain't ever going back.”
And that my friends, has absolutely nothing to do with Christmas. However, it brings me to the second reason I don't do well with Christmas letters: A tendency to digress as I write. I can't seem to keep on track with one theme. By the time I've finished with this Christmas letter, it will be 14 pages long and have absolutely nothing to do with Christmas.
The third reason I don't write Christmas letters is: you've heard it all before. I am a blogger and I write most every day in some form or another. They say a writer should write what they know best. I know very little about some things and nothing at all about everything else. In spite of that, I do have some in-depth knowledge of my own life. Consequently, my life is primarily what I blog about. If you subscribe to my blog or happen to be on Facebook...you've likely heard it all before. It actually gets to feeling a bit narcissistic. Hence the tendency to digress out of my own life story into those of fiction, poems or what have you. Therefore, in an attempt to write under 14 pages, stay on track and not bore you with page after page of narcissism...the remainder of this years Christmas letter will be a short(ish) summary of the years happenings. And here we go....
I spent the summer months on my property in Halfway Oregon. I go north for the summer only because living off the grid in an RV through an Arizona summer would be insanity. I suffer from a lot of things...insanity is not yet one of them.
I basically live off the grid during my time in Halfway as well. My property does not have power, water or septic. I park my tiny living quarters trailer close enough to my Grannies old place (now inhabited by renter Bob) that I can hook into water. I don't try to hook into the power as it would likely take down the entire Pine Valley Grid. I run off solar and generators. I travel in my LQ enough that I dump the septic on my way out of town. It works.
I crossed fence the property this year to separate the horses from the main entry. Trying to pull in and out without them escaping through the gate was a pain in the butt. Digging holes for the fence posts was an even bigger pain in the butt. I used moms tractor and auger when I could. You can use the auger on the first four inches of topsoil before resorting to digger bar, shovel and lots of swearing. Living in an area referred to as “boulder flat” gives you an idea of just how much swearing. On the upside – digging and setting over 2 dozen RR ties negates the need for joining a gym. One the downside – once the fence was up, I discovered I could no longer turn “Big Red,” the water truck, around without taking out my newly built fence, round corral and Grannies house. I sadly put the old girl up for sale. She is now fighting fires in Sparta Oregon where she began over 40 years ago. You will be missed Big Red.
When not digging holes or picking rocks – I spent time in the back-country on horseback. Through friends Lee and Susan Barton's familiarity of the country – I was able to explore areas that were in my back yard growing up but never had the chance to experience. I look forward to next summer doing more of the same.
I left Oregon and headed for home (Aguila AZ) in September. I had left my colt, Drifter, in central Oregon at Lauman Training for 60 days. I left for Madras to pick him up the first week of September. From Madras, I drove to Emmett Idaho and helped with our Idaho Mounted Shooters USMS shoot. From there, we hauled to Heber Utah for another USMS shoot. I left my Idaho friends in Heber and continued on to Moab Utah. Taking this long route through Utah broke up the over 1666 mile trip from Oregon to Arizona. I arrived in Aguila September 10th.
September days in Arizona are hot but not unbearable. The nights are what get you. It does not cool off much. I lucked out with the summer not being as hot this year. It was a great monsoon season. I'm told the most rain in over 30 years and among the highest on record. I spent more than one monsoon standing barefoot in the downpours watching the washes fill thigh deep. It was pretty awesome to experience.
I started the process of having a home put on my property. To say it is a long process is the understatement of the century. A century is about what it takes, too. Maricopa county, the fourth largest county in the US, has no idea it has a population existing outside of Phoenix. The permitting process is a nightmare. It can take years from start to finish. My nightly prayers now include asking God for a house before assisted living becomes a viable option. The powers-that-be estimate my house to be delivered in December and move-in-ready by April. It is now December. In place of a house, I have three gaping perk holes waiting to be inspected for a septic. The holes are a good 15 feet deep and rapidly filling up with dead Kangaroo Rats. If a Kangaroo Rat can't climb out of something..nothing can. Suffice it to say, they make me nervous. I'm constantly worried the dogs or horses will fall in. I've also stopped drinking fireball after dark.
Recently, a surveyor came out and did a topographical survey for the permitting approval. It does you no good to call for an update. In the unlikely event someone gets back to you...they tell you nothing. “It's a big county – they don't like to come all the way from Phoenix.” “It's COVID. We can't get materials.” We are short staffed.” Blah blah blah.” I've learned patience and to embrace homelessness.
I will be pleasantly surprised if my house is indeed live-in-ready by April. I hate to be a pessimist, but you don't have to live in this county long to get a sense of how things are done. In the meantime, my horses have a nice shade run, my arena has great footing and I didn't have to pick a single rock to get it that way. My RV is like living in the Hilton compared to an 8' short-wall. I have running water (most of the time) – a generator that keeps the lights on and even runs a washer machine so my mom doesn't have to do my laundry. Life on El Rancho Gitana del Desierto could be a whole lot worse.
Not having a house to care for affords me more time for the important things in life: My critters. There is no lack of mounted shooting events in these parts. You can easily enter a competition every weekend. I've personally cut down traveling due to the cost of fuel. I try to enter shoots within a 100 miles radius. There are enough local clubs within that radius putting on jackpots with various formats to keep a balloon killer content.
Jack is my rock. He's not made a wrong step this year in mounted shooting. We often bring home a check and have just one qualified win left to move up to a SL4. I think he appreciates the high fuel prices and is content to roam the mountains and deserts instead of an arena. I would agree.
Drifter, my colt, is coming along nicely. He's young yet, (won't turn three until the end of May) so I don't overdo it with him. We take short rides in the desert and play in the arena from time to time. Friends have let me push cows on him at their arena. Nothing seems to bother him much. He's super smooth and willing to do just about anything I've asked of him so far. He is a blast to ride and I am anxious to get out and put more miles on him.
The main reason I bought this property is it borders State Land. I can literally ride out my back gate onto acres and acres of public land. It is a wanderers paradise. I spend more time out there in the desert on foot or horseback than I do at home. A dream long time coming...but a dream come true.
I acquired a new dog. He showed up at my place shortly after we got here. He was starving, dehydrated and beat all to hell. I've never seen a dog in as bad of shape and survive...but survive he did. Nobody claimed him, so I have claimed him for as long as he wants to be here. I've never seen a dog quite like him so I had DNA run on him. He is a Dogo Argentino...which is a mix of breeds including boxer, pit-bull, mastiff and some bulldog. The vet agreed that he is probably 2 years old. I call him Groot. He's a bit of a mystery. I don't know where he come from or how he found us...but I'm mighty glad he did.
Hank is doing well. He's slowed down some but still goes with me everywhere whether on foot or horseback. He guards the perimeter on the lookout for coyotes. He hates them coyotes. He tolerates Groot. Some mornings he'll even play with him as they chase each other around the 5 acres like a couple of pups.
Most mornings the dogs and I head out on a walk. I take my pistol, pocket knife and a bota bag of water. I've also began to take a backpack for carrying the many desert treasures that can be found. From old bottles to tin cans....the desert floor is a plethora of hidden artifacts from the past. To me, every glass bottle and steel can, with its rough edges pried open with a hunting knife, has a story to tell.
This year I made a goal to expand my horizons and do things other than ride my horses. I know...it's hard to believe, but they tell me there is more to life than living it on horseback. I'm still not convinced, but I will give it the old college try. I've ventured out and explored new areas throughout this state I call home. I monitor several Arizona adventure Facebook pages that give me ideas of places to check out. I've visited a lake, a few abandoned mines and watched a local theater group put on a skit at Vulture City...a restored ghost town. Most recently, I attended a George Straight concert. I made it through the performance without hyperventilating from claustrophobia. NEVER have I seen so many people in one building. It will likely be my last concert of that size. It was a good concert, George is, well, the king and all...but I'll stick with my future ex husband Dave Stamey. Old Troubadours and Amarillo by Morning can't hold a candle to the likes of Lincoln County or Campfire Waltz.
Last year about this time, The All Mighty decided it was time I went to Church. Through a series of unforeseen circumstances, He gently tossed me through the doors of The Bible Church of Aquila. The tiny congregation consists of 6 to 25 members. Six to Twelve on most days. On a good day, when the snowbirds and guest speakers are in town, we cram a good 25 souls in the pews with room to spare. I would guess the average age of it's members to be between 70 and 80. Pastor Dan himself is 94. I can no longer imagine not being a part of this little Church family.
So...that's pretty much it in a mesquite bean. As I wait for a real house to appear...I ride, I shoot, I hike and I explore. I attend Church fairly regular. I might miss a Sunday if there is a shoot scheduled but I think God understands. Most mounted shooting events that fall on a Sunday provide Cowboy Church. Besides – I can't think of a better place to be nearest to God than in His wide open creation on the back of a buckskin horse.
Merry Christmas to each and everyone....and Merry Christmas to you too, Mrs. Godwin
Laurie – Jack – Drifter – Hank and Groot
PS: A link to my blog should you like to subscribe: https://thesagewriter.blogspot.com/
I do post a link to some of my blogs on Facebook...but not all.
Notes: Hauled out Eagle Eye Road to Tiger Wash and rode east down an old two track. Not sure where it would have ended up....an old road to Tonopah maybe? While checking Tonopah out, I see it is home of the Palo Verde Nuclear Plant - the largest power producer in the country. Kind of cool...as long as it doesn't explode I guess.
I rode Drifter. He did awesome. This is the longest ride under saddle for him. His feet held up great.
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| Phil and Tank |
Notes: Finally made it to the corrals! I rode Drifter (no shoes) so hauled to the public access point to avoid twelve miles of rocky terrain. The ride from the spot we unloaded is only a couple miles from the corrals. I need to look into getting boots for him until he gets his first set of shoes. He has nice feet, but the rocks out here are sharp and plentiful.
The corrals were occupied with weanling calves. One had escaped so we put it back in and rode on up a ways. By the time we rode back by the corrals, the ranchers were there dropping off more calves. Not the friendliest duo. Maybe they saw our tracks milling around putting the calf back in and thought we were nosing around where we don't belong. Hard telling. I find some folks are just naturally sour.
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| Cindy and Jimmy |
Life isn't always an adventure. Nor should it be. I have found that often, it is the ordinary day to day moments that have a surprising impact on our emotions. Or maybe I'm simply getting old and sentimental. Regardless – I have those profound, yet seemingly, “ordinary” moments more often as the years progress.
I've been back home in Arizona for awhile now. I can't tell you exactly how long – as time means little to me since retirement. I seldom know what day of the week it is and can often be found in the wrong month entirely. The only real concern with time I have is there isn't enough of it and we waste a hell of a lot of it.
(August 28th – Sept: 2nd.) Much the same as when I left Arizona to go north for the summer – I took my time coming back. I backtracked to central Oregon and picked up my two year old colt, Drifter, from the trainer. I'd left him with Kitty Lauman (Lauman Training) for two months to be started. Kitty would prefer for colts to be at minimum two and a half before starting them. I gave her my very saddest, pleading face with the explanation that I was heading south and wouldn't be back for at least a year. I don't trust anyone else. I'm too old to be starting colts. She had done an amazing job with my already messed up gelding and I knew she would do a great job on a colt with a clean slate. I've drug him with me everywhere since I got him at 8 months but purposely did not try to “train” on him myself for fear of screwing him up. Whether I was convincing or I just wore her down, Kitty agreed. She'd take him and put 60 days basic start on him.
I arrived at the Lauman ranch the end of August and camped in my usual spot by the Lone Pine Rangers arena. Kitty spent two days showing me how to continue with Drifter once I got him home. I took videos of everything I could think of so I would not forget. I might put more miles than most on my horses– but I do not claim to be a trainer by any right. I grew up climbing on any horse that would get close enough to the fence for me to mount and rode from sun up to sun down. None of this “collection, balance and softness” you hear so much about. Most every horse I've owned had a neck stiff as a 2x4 and two speeds: Slow as molasses leaving the barn and 9-0 headed back to it. I want better for Drifter.
I left Kitty's on an early afternoon. I tossed the lead rope over Drifters back and asked him to load up. He hopped into the trailer with little hesitation. I may not be the next Monte Roberts...but my horses load and unload with the best of them. Joy surged through my being with that one simple act of stepping into the trailer; our journey as partners had begun. A simple toss of the lead...a single step up...an ordinary moment.
With my critter pack once again complete, Jack, Drifter, Hank and I headed for Idaho. We would stay at Dan and Teri's in Emmett for a few days before following them to the Heber Utah two day shoot September 7th and 8th.
The Utah folks put on a wonderful shoot. They do everything in their power to throw money at you. If you don't bring home a check, it's your own damn fault. Jack and I didn't impress them much...however, we didn't get skunked either. We managed to win money in the 4D, a clean shooter check and placed 4th overall in the 4D. With our 60 bucks and a bag full of Farnam swag, we bade farewell to our Idaho friends and pointed the rig toward Moab Utah.
My intent was to break up the 1666+ mile route. I had stayed at the Old Spanish trail arena in Moab on my way north last year. Moab to Aguila's 8 hour drive would be the longest leg of the trip; doable for driver and critters.
The Old Spanish Trail Arena sets aside a bank of stalls and a few RV hookups especially for horse folk traveling through. The host assured me I was welcome to stay as long as I would like. My original thought was to stay in Moab until the Arizona nights cooled down some. As tired as I was, I contemplated staying for a week. The contemplation quickly passed. Anxious to get home, I woke fresh and ready to pull out of Moab by 6:00 AM the following morning, September 10th. I know this time frame only by researching photos, emails and calendar entries. Again...time eludes me. Unless your waiting in line next to the smelly guy that hasn't yet had his annual bath or grasped the concept of personal space...time goes way too fast.
Upon arriving home, I went about the business of unpacking my LQ into the RV and setting up my property. It takes longer than you might expect. There is hay to unload and suppliers to contact for the year to come. Wells, pumps and water lines that require constant maintenance. Generators, batteries, propane and air conditioners to keep running so we don't evaporate in the hot Arizona sun. What little downtime I manage to squeeze out of the day is spent swapping rides between two horses. It was one such span of free time that I found myself at the horses turnout with a halter in each hand. There was nothing broke that needed fixing...nothing pressing that needed built, maintained or remodeled. No hay to stack, ditches to dig or fence to repair. The biggest decision facing me in that moment was “which horse should I ride today?” The grin spreading across my face matched the giddiness in my heart. “Which horse should I ride today?” An ordinary moment.
We were as settled in as we could get. I looked forward to attending church Sunday mornings. I've never been the church going type. I believe in God and in Jesus. I believe in Heaven and I know how to get there. I've simply never been comfortable in church. Apparently God figured it was damn time that changed when He tossed me through the doors of the Bible Church of Aguila; one ordinary event after another.
Last year about this time, my favorite little cafe here in Aguila fell on hard times. The death of the husband/father left the family to run the business and fight the county to keep the doors open. The roof needed repair and the property maintained or the county was going to impose exuberant daily fines on the family business. The locals would not hear of it. One thing led to another and I found myself setting up a Go fund me Page to help raise money to save the Coyote Den. I've never been involved with crowd-funding before but I am comfortable enough with computers to figure it out. What I'm not comfortable with is handling other peoples money. I would not do it unless the money filtered through a trustworthy church: Enter: The Bible Church of Aguila and Pastor Dan.
I made first contact with Pastor Dan through email. He agreed to meet with me and help set up the Go Fund Me page. Through those email correspondence, I would have sworn I was dealing with a 30 to 40 year old computer savvy nerd with a heart for God. Pastor Dan agreed to meet me “after church” one Sunday...but I was “sure welcome to come for service as well.” A simple...ordinary suggestion.
I stood before ornately engraved doors of a picturesque south west style iglesia. It doesn't get more quaint than this little church building. I've not walked in to many churches...let alone one whose Pastor or people I knew nothing about. I took a deep breath, confirmed it was a cloudless day with zero percent likelihood of being struck by lightening and stepped over the threshold.
I was immediately made to feel welcome by Pastor Dan and the congregation. After the service, Pastor Dan dismissed the congregation and escorted me to the fellowship room to begin work on the Go Fund Me. Pastor Dan: A 93 year old man with bright, intelligent eyes and a booming voice. He speaks three languages, has written numerous books including those on theology and prophesies. He's lived all over the world, almost died at least nine times and always sports a MAGA baseball cap as he stands behind the pulpit leading his congregation in worship. At 120 pounds soaking wet, this unassuming man is anything but ordinary.
I could write a lengthy blog on the little Bible Church of Aguila and it's tiny congregation of outwardly “ordinary” people. I will save that for another time. I will focus on one particular member. His name is Otto.
From what I gather, nobody really knows the complete story of Otto. You see him around town peddling a bike between Aguila and Wickenburg. I met him during my first attendance at the churches fellowship meal following services. He filled his plate and sat at the end of one of the tables alone. I brought my plate over and asked if he minded if I sat down across from him. I don't remember him telling me I could – but he didn't object, either. I sat down across from him. I'm OK with silence. He didn't have to strike up a conversation if he didn't want to. It's kind of like horses and dogs. Some people feel they need to run up and start petting every horse and dog they come up to regardless how the horse or dog may feel about being mauled at the time. If Otto didn't want to talk – so be it.
I didn't yet know his name. I decided to break the silence and ask. At first, he didn't answer. He looked up at me for an uncomfortable length of time through brilliant blue eyes behind bushy brows and a mass of wild, unruly gray hair. OK. I get it. You don't have to tell me your name. I went back to eating my lunch of fried chicken, green beans and sweat potatoes.
Five minutes later, one word: “Otto.” His voice caught me by surprise. “What?” “Otto...my name is Otto.” “Nice to meet you. I'm Laurie.” We sat again in silence awhile longer. Without any particular prompting..Otto began to talk. “Do you know what the most consumed food was during the war?” (I don't remember what war he was referring too, but I think it was WW2) “I do not” I said. “Sweet Potatoes.” He said. I said I liked sweet potatoes. He said he liked them too. From there – Otto was a fountain of information regarding Germany, their culture...the war, their history and the like. He didn't stop talking until the meal was over. I was mesmerized by the plethora of information coming from this man sitting across from me in ordinary, tattered clothing. Here was this person who has likely been over-looked as a local staple of the town...riding his bike from wherever to who-knows-where...now sitting across the table; a virtual encyclopedia of interesting facts; and I got the privilege of listening to him and learning at least a small part of his story. All because of one plain, simple and quite ordinary sweet potato.
Zipping forward again to the present. It was September 14th. Hank and I had been home for several days and needed groceries and other necessities. We had spent the day in Wickenburg shopping and running errands. I'm not a great shopper. Tired and hungry, I was looking forward to heating up the leftovers from lunch I carried in a to-go box from The Cowboy Cooking: Hot roast beef sandwich with mashed potatoes and brown gravy; just about my favorite food.
I started to step out of the truck when I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. It's the middle of September...there won't be another soul within The Rancho Vaquero subdivision until at least November. I don't mind being alone. In fact, I enjoy the solitude...however, I can be a tad “alert.” If I were a horse, they would say I was “watchy.” I slid back in my seat to be on the safe side.
The movement came from under my RV in the form of a large, emaciated white dog. He had found Hanks water bucket. I kept the door between him and me as he cautiously came into view before slipping under the fence outside my property. I am not afraid of dogs, but I have a healthy respect for a stray that's starving and I know nothing about. I approached the fence with the to-go box of leftover lunch. The dog never took his eyes off me. I talked to him: “Hey pup...I bet you are hungry. How about some Cowboy Cooking? Please don't rip my throat out.” I slipped the food under the fence. For a dog that had to be about as hungry as one can get – he waited until I backed away from the fence before helping himself to the food.
I decided to leave him alone and see what happens. I went about unloading the groceries and told Hank to leave him be. After some time, he crawled back through the fence and laid down under the RV. I got him a dish of Hanks food and set it out for him. He politely ate while I finished chores. I sat down on the steps and watched as he finished the first real meal he'd likely had in weeks. He then walked up to where I sat...got as close as he could get and put his broad head in my lap and closed his eyes. I wasn't sure if I should pet him. To be honest, I wasn't sure I wanted to pet him. He wasn't exactly the easiest thing to look at. Emaciated with a loose, wrinkly white skin and open sores from top to bottom. He looked like the love child of Gollum from Lord of the Rings and a hairless cat.
I figured if he was still here by morning and hadn't ripped my throat out, I'd attend to his wounds and see if anyone was missing a dog. I snapped a picture of him and posted it on Aguila's News and Information Facebook page. A few posters said they had seen him around town the last couple of weeks...but nobody claimed him. I cleaned up his wounds, helped him up the stairs he couldn't yet navigate on his own and let him sleep inside. I would give it two weeks. If he was still here after two weeks, I'd take him to the vet for shots and have him altered. I named him Groot.
The neutering was a bit of an ordeal. The incision site got severely infected partly due to not having an e-collar...of which I had no idea what the hell that was...and partly, I believe – to him being in poor health. He had dropped what little weight I'd manage to put on him after the surgery. We'd have to start from square one.
Slowly but surely, the passing days showed improvement. His backbone less pronounced...his hips and eye sockets less sunken. His coat was starting to take on a softer feel and crisper white. He seldom leaves my side, sleeps on the couch and insists on keeping at least one paw touching me at all times.
One day during our morning walk in the desert, I was sitting on a mesquite stump daydreaming. A cold, wet nose nudged me back to reality. Groot's cold...wet nose.
An ordinary thing...a dogs cold, wet nose. However, it was not ordinary to me. Here was a dog I wasn't sure would live to the end of a week or stick around if he did. Yet – here he sat...as close as he could possibly get to me, broad head pushed against my chest, one paw on my leg and a cold, wet nose signifying health and vitality. Such an ordinary thing to bring such extraordinary joy.
I've been home now going on three months. Folks have commented that I haven't been blogging much. The first thing that comes to mind when confronted with this statement is shock that anyone reads them. Blogging is a form of journaling for me. I am not good with dates and sequences of events. Blogging allows me the ability to recollect events, adventures and life in general as it pertains to my world. It's not that my life has ceased to travel along the wavelength of time...but rather in respect to the life and times here on El Rancho Gitana del Desierto ...things are fairly stagnant. I have been on hold waiting for the county to approve permits before construction can be made on my house. A real house. A house with constant power, hot and cold running water and flushing toilets and everything! Simply put, I've felt said life has not been “blog worthy.”
As I ponder this self proclaimed utterance of life not being “blog worthy,” I come to the realization this statement is harsh and unfair to the seemingly ordinary events that happen in the world. After all – these ordinary moments far exceed the extraordinary...I would surmise to say by the zillions 10 fold. The uniqueness of an individual desert blossom. The contrasting swirls of color in a sandy wash after a summer monsoon. A delicate birds nest perfectly secured within the fortress of a cholla. The musky remnants of odor left behind by nocturnal creatures roaming the desert floor. Good people gathered together in prayer. Blue cornflower Corning Ware containing fellowship meals prepared by ordinary people with extraordinary hearts. An abandoned stray, who from here forward, will know nothing but love and acceptance. A cold-wet nose...and sweet potatoes.
