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.
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