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
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