Dogs

Greetings from Domelandia,

We gathered with some good friends a few months ago to celebrate Cindy's birthday. 

Somehow (I'm still not sure how this happened) we got to talking (and talking and talking) about dogs.  At some point we were looking at one another, thinking, SOMEONE PLEASE CHANGE THE SUBJECT (!!)  but it never happened.  Later the host said, "And we weren't even smoking anything!"  The next day I emailed everyone and apologized that the conversation had gone to the dogs.  Now the subject of dogs in general has become an inside joke that we'll carry with us going forward. 

Good friends are hard to find.  And we forgive each other for totally weird conversations apropos of nothing meaningful.  (Kind of like this post).
 

I Am Not Making This Up

Greetings from Domelandia,

Today (October 28, 2017), at about 5 PM, Scout barked and I looked out the dining room window.  (I have learned over time that when Scout is trying to tell me something, I should listen. He is a Good Dog).  I saw a black cloak clad figure walking fast across the top of the dam. She wore flowing black robes, was stooped a bit, and wearing what looked to be a white hat, creating a somewhat witchy appearance.  She was walking southwards towards Jim Bock's canyon, where the little camping hut stands that Jim built back in the day.  I told Ric something garbled like, "someone is out there!!" and he finally believed me, and jumped into his truck and followed her.

He came back to the house and said, "Call the sheriff.  There's an older lady who appears to be disoriented."  He grabbed his fire department radio and some bread and drove back to where she was.

Ric told me that she opened her hands and told him "I have barter."  She had a few rose hips to offer.  She told him she was pregnant with triplets and was trying to get to Sarcillo Canyon.  She told him he was making her uncomfortable.  He pointed to a small grove of trees a few yards away and said, "That looks like a good place to spend the night."  She said OK and walked over there.  Ric zoomed back to the house and told me to call the sheriff back and tell him to hurry.  It was getting dark and colder as the sun was setting.  He was afraid she'd start walking away up into the woods and was prepared to follow her if he had to.

I called the BonCarbo fire chief (Mary Ann) and she coordinated with some members of our volunteer firefighters who guided the deputies and an ambulance to our place.  I walked outside to see what was happening (I couldn't see them from the house).  Mary Ann showed up and needed to call someone else but wasn't getting cell service so I came back to the house to make the call.  I took some soup and a cup of water over to the lady.  She gulped down the water and drank all the soup.  She told me she was fine, not to be concerned, that she had made her decision.  She wasn't wearing any shoes, and her coat was turned inside out, but her white hair was neatly arranged into a bun and she was clean.  She didn't want me to stay too close so I went back to the truck to wait for help to arrive.  She sat down.

After about an hour, the deputies and EMTs arrived.  They were very patient and approached her slowly and in a non-threatening way.  It took about 20 minutes but they finally convinced her to get into the deputies' car.  She wouldn't allow the EMTs to examine her but did tell the female EMT that she had a place to stay in a 6-sided cabin and would be perfectly safe there.  Ric walked the short distance to Jim's little cabin and sure enough, it looked as if she'd been there.  The trapdoor entrance on the floor of the cabin was open, and you could see the marks in the dirt underneath where she'd scooted on her knees to open the door.  There was an old piece of foam that had been moved from the sleeping loft area down to the floor.

She looked familiar to all of us.  She told us her name is Gale.  The deputies left with her in the back seat.  The next week I saw her standing at the intersection of Main and Commercial streets in Trinidad, and at Wal-Mart, with her coat right side out, and wearing a new pair of boots. We called the sheriff to compliment him on how well his deputies conducted themselves.  He told us that Gale is 'known to law enforcement'.  He called me back several times and we found out that she'd abandoned her vehicle at our neighbors' place and somehow found her way to the little cabin through the woods.  Our neighbor said there was a packed suitcase in the back seat and fire starters.  And used toilet paper all around the car.

We're grateful we were able to help get her back to town.  The Viking later remembered she used to cut meat at Safeway, and ran the store and post office in Hoehne.

The funniest part of this whole thing was me trying to tell our neighbor Yvonne about it.  She thought I was Halloween pranking her and kept hollering at me to stop.

Why I Love The Viking

Greetings From Domelandia,

Happy Valentine's Day!

Four months to the day after the Viking's Heart Event in 2008, he called the family together for the weekend. There was a big tree near the hay barn that was dying. We needed to get it out of there before it fell onto the barn. The daughters and their significant others watched him use his chain saw to bring down the huge tree, and we all helped haul away and stack the wood. I sent some photos of this milestone to the doctors that saved his life. You have to look twice to see the Viking--he looks very small next to that tree. I was worried that he was overdoing it, but he used the occasion to say to us and to the world, "I'm back."

A couple of months after that, we were working on our Solar Center. This is a small structure that holds the batteries and inverter, complete with dials and switches that tell us how much juice the batteries have and how much the panels are producing. It is made from Structural Insulated Panels (SIPs). (Essentially a 6" piece of foam sandwiched between two sheets of plywood). Things went smoothly until it was time to put on the roof. There was a logistical problem because the panels are quite heavy and unwieldy. Still a bit concerned that my hubby was overdoing it, I called a halt to the process and suggested we make a plan--you know, think about the best way to get the panel up onto the roof without killing either one of us. The Viking responded to this idea by saying, "I often find that if we just start doing something, something will happen." Unable to refute this logic, I grabbed one end of the panel and tried to help him shove the thing into place. The Viking, standing a couple of rungs up the ladder, almost got it into place. Then the weight of the panel pushed him, step by step, back down the ladder until he came to rest with the panel on his midsection, his arms and legs flailing insect-like. He wiggled out from underneath the panel, but not before I had another of those moments where I wondered if he'd get out of this one unscathed. Somehow he always does. He's just fearless that way.

Living with an artist who happens to be a builder, one becomes accustomed to inventive solutions to problems. Like the metal roof he designed and installed for the dome. Ingenious. And the gopher-proof fence he built for the garden.

We mostly finished the interior of our little love nest, so our thoughts turned to making the approach to our home look more presentable. We envisioned a little landscaped area with native plants and interesting rocks, some lovely rugged tree sculptures, and maybe a water feature thrown in for good measure. Something feminine and round, to echo the shape of the house. We pictured water flowing down the sides of the thing and into a pool of water. We couldn't find a fountain we liked at any of the lawn and garden places.

Our farmer/welder friend Robert saw a 250-gallon propane tank on Craigslist and we drove to Pueblo to see it. It looked so cool sitting there in front of the guy's house. We bought it and drove it over to Robert's so they could uninstall the valves and air the thing out. They drilled a couple of holes in the top for the fountain pipes. Then Robert helped The Viking load it back into the pickup and he brought it home a few days later.

We wanted to see how it would look in place.The orb weighs about 700 pounds.The plan was to simply roll it out of the truck. The thought was that the combination of its mass and the deep snow on the ground would hold it where it landed. Unfortunately, the Viking's calculations were faulty and it started heading down the slight incline of our yard and straight for the arroyo. He leaped out of the truck to stop it and promptly fell down in the snow.

I was talking to Strawberry Blonde daughter on the phone, unaware of the drama that was taking place right outside the window. I looked out just in time to see the sphere rolling away and then the Viking falling down. He was behind the truck, so I couldn't tell if it had rolled over him or not. I told daughter, "AAH! AAH! Oh! I'll have to call you back!" and raced outside to make sure he was OK. He luckily didn't fall into the path of the juggernaut, and was able to stop it before it got too much farther. Then he tried to roll it back up to the proposed site but of course NOW it would not be moved. I called the daughter and told her he wasn't dead. Since the thing was still full of propane fumes, we decided it couldn't stay near the house until those dissipated. While we waited for this to happen, we dug a pond.

We painted the sphere a lovely dark blue and put it in the middle of the pond.  The Viking routed the water to go up through the middle of it and cascade down the sides.  Nine goldfish and a spotted salamander live in there year round.  The spadefoot toads use it for a hatchery and their love croaks fill the air for weeks while they're trying to find one another. I think some of the tadpoles get eaten by water snakes but many survive to continue the cycle.  It really is a thing of beauty but not the simple little water feature I had envisioned.  The Viking's visions are often unrestrained and unique, to say the least.

One thing I love about the Viking is that he is mostly cheerful. He calls me in the morning and tells me, "Isn't it just a beautiful day?" And then proceeds to tell me about the deer or the turkeys or the bobcat he saw on the way to work. He thinks blizzards are just as beautiful as sunny days.  Even when he is tired, he has a positive attitude.

He has mentored many young men by hiring them to help him build houses. He has the ability to convey what it means to be a responsible person, how to be proud of what you do for a living, and to be able to look at yourself in the mirror and like what you see. He doesn't understand how some people believe that craftsmen are second-class citizens. (We had a customer who never spoke to any of his crew, and that bothered him). The homes he builds are not only functional but beautiful. He can't help it.

He's compassionate and kind. He gives waitresses generous tips. He gives presents to his customers to say thank you. He brings me flowers. And loads of compost for the garden. He does yoga to stay strong enough to keep building houses as he gets older.

He's an artist. He would paint, draw, and write more if he had the time. Taking care of his family has always been his priority. We are looking forward to retirement so he can spend more time doing the things he loves.

One morning he stopped his truck on the county road to let a herd of elk pass. He watched as they took turns jumping over the barbed-wire fence. One cow caught her hind foot in the fence and started thrashing and struggling. Elk are big animals, but The Viking didn't hesitate. He grabbed a pair of pliers and ran to help her. It took him a minute to get her loose because the wire was wrapped so tightly, but he was able to cut her loose. She bounded away unhurt.

He is what you'd call A Real Man.

Happy Valentine's Day to my Viking.  I love you always and forever.

Kids Say the Darndest Things

   


Greetings from Domelandia,


Just got back from Texas and a nice visit with my family.  We had time to walk, eat barbecue, talk, tell jokes, and shop.  We spent some time with  grandnieces (5 and 8).  The youngest did something remarkable that reminded me that before we start caring what other people think, we can still see Heaven.

It was after the big party My Bro threw for the family--that's me and the Viking, and an assortment of sisters, brothers, nephews, nieces, sons, and 2 granddaughters (5 and 8).  My Bro is the one that makes a special effort to keep our family connected.  We gathered at his house from a variety of scattered locations (The Viking and I are the furthest away) and enjoyed reconnecting. We ate great food, soaked in the hot tub, played games, and generally had a blast doing all of that, talking our heads off and laughing at the good parts.


When it was time to go, the 5-yr-old said, "I want us to all get into a circle and hold hands.  I want us to go around the circle and say how much we love everyone.  I'll go first."  And she told us exactly how much she loved everyone and what a wonderful time we'd just had together.  There was an embarrassed silence by some of us. The rest said, "awww..." then silence.

Awkward seconds passed, and then in turn, we responded with our own statements of love. 

In that moment, the youngest of us was our spiritual leader, telling us to stop for a second and feel the love.  Telling us to be grateful right now.  Telling us to say out loud and in front of everybody how much we love one another. It reminded me of our Mother, who always said a prayer to kick off the festivities at family gatherings in the past. 

Our generation wanted our children to know how to be strong, upright, fair-minded, good partners, loving moms and dads, good sons and daughters.  Their children, I am certain, are all that, and a bag of chips.

Biker Wedding

Greetings From Domelandia,

Thirty years ago, a friend did my horoscope. It said, 'You will have many unusual friends."
That's for sure - we've known some interesting people. Today I'm thinking of two of them and remembering a warm summer afternoon...

Linda was tall and thin, loose-limbed and graceful. She had long black hair and carried herself like a queen, as if she were used to being listened to and obeyed. She had a crescent-moon shaped scar on her chin where someone's fist had split it open.

(Lori told me once, "I don't know what it was about Linda - every time she opened her mouth, I just wanted to hit her.")

Linda was the minister at our wedding. Back then there were advertisements in the classified ads of the Mother Earth News for becoming an ordained minister of the Universal Life Church. You sent some money and got paperwork to prove that you could perform weddings, christenings, and funerals. Since the Viking and I haven't been big fans of the religious options in our area, we bought a marriage license and invited a few people to our little valley to watch us make it legal. We asked Linda to marry us and stay for the fried chicken lunch afterwards. Two of my sisters came, and my new friend, also named Linda, stood with us as we tied the knot.

Our wedding day was full of hope and joy and love and happy tears. I had hand-stitched my husband a wedding shirt, and I wore a dress I bought at the thrift store for $5. It was big enough to cover my growing belly. We had little money, but nothing scared us. Our whole lives were ahead of us, and we had True Love. Didn't everyone?

I met Linda's future husband in the laundromat in Trinidad. He came over to where my friend and I were folding clothes. His face was all scratched up, his clothes had dirt all over them, and he smelled like booze. He steadied himself on one of the folding tables and proclaimed, "I think I just got hit by a car."

Jerry was a veteran of the Vietnam War. He was one of many souls who went to fight and came home with demons. Back then, I didn't understand Jerry at all, and I didn't even try to. I lived in my little bubble of happiness, peace, and light. The Viking and I orbited around the sun of an entirely different solar system than the one where Jerry and Linda hung out.

They had a son together. Linda wanted to make their union legal so she could use Jerry's veteran's benefits to go to school and get certified to be a diesel mechanic. We'd see her sometimes, wearing overalls smeared with motor oil, barefoot, smoking a cigarette outside the truck bays where the classes were taught. I could never understand why she liked being barefooted around all that heavy machinery and dirt, but it was part of who she was.

They set the date for the wedding and invited The Viking and me to come. We wanted to be there and help them celebrate. We had a neighbor, Mary Margaret, who loved weddings. We invited her to come along, and the three of us piled into the truck and headed off to the nuptials. Mary Margaret wore a pink and white houndstooth checked polyester suit with ivory-colored panty hose and matching patent leather heels. She brought a Tupperware container with pink and white frosted cupcakes to contribute to the wedding feast.

We arrived at Jerry's house. I was shocked to see the wedding guests. I hadn't realized that Jerry and Linda and their friends were really bikers - I mean the hard-drinking, leather-clad men and their 'old ladies'. I was really shocked to see their kitchen table almost completely covered with bottles of Jim Beam, Mad Dog 20/20, and other hard stuff, as well as piles of marijuana, and an assortment of pills of various colors and sizes. Mary Margaret placed her cupcakes on the table with the other items and fretted about getting her Tupperware back.

It was apparent that many in the wedding party, Jerry included, were already well past drunkenness and had reached that state of intoxication that is otherworldly. I believe the combination of alcohol, various hallucinogens, and lack of sleep contributed to this state. When we approached Jerry to congratulate him, we weren't sure if he could see us. He attempted to speak, but only he understood what he said. I knew he was in there somewhere, but it was scary to see myself reflected in the glassy black pools of his eyes. My own eyes grew big, and bigger still when Waco, the best man, yelled, "When do we get to eat the bride?" answered by haw-haws from his fellows.

Linda came forth from the house, her long, raven hair loose on her shoulders. She wore a full-length black dress--no slave to tradition was she. There was no mistaking this event for a fairy-tale wedding, and no illusions about happy endings, either. The Viking and I kept exchanging looks. I was thinking, "Man, am I glad I have you and not this." I'm pretty sure he was thinking the same thing.

She announced that the ceremony would take place atop Frijole Hill, an interesting geological formation near Jerry's land. It was some distance from the house - we had to get into our vehicles and drive to it. Then there was a half-mile hike to the foot of the hill.

After we got out of our vehicles, Linda made a token attempt to get the milling crowd started in the right direction. Then she appeared to relinquish any thoughts of being in control of anything, and began to pick her way through the rough terrain, avoiding rocks and the occasional cactus--shoeless, of course, as was her way.

Feeling as though we should be supportive of the bride, the three of us joined her. Others began to move in the direction of the Hill, only to forget some critical item ("where's my cooler, man?") and have to turn around and go back to get something.

We reached the bottom of the hill and began to climb. There was a trail to the top which made the hike a little easier. The Viking had to reach back and help pregnant me and Mary Margaret in that short skirt and heels, but we finally got up there and found a rock to sit on. Upon reaching the summit, Linda pulled out a long white cigarette, lit it, and walked to the edge of the cliff. There was a good view from up there and you could see the wedding party coming along. They were spread out, laughing, drinking, taking their time. Occasionally, we heard Waco yelling his sentiments about having his way with the bride.

It seemed to take a long time for the remaining guests to get up the hill. Jerry's buddies stayed close to him, keeping him well-lubricated and shouting encouragement. He was doing OK until he got to the bottom of the hill. He could barely stand up, but for some reason he decided to climb straight up the cliff instead of taking the path. Perhaps he didn't remember that there was a path. This route required some hand-over-hand climbing skills and I wondered how that was going to work out. His final approach to the summit slowed as he struggled over boulders and around trees. From time to time, Linda, cigarette in hand, sashayed to the cliff edge and back, taking note of his upward progress and reporting it to the rest of us.

Finally, the lusty cheers from his friends told us that he was nearing the top. He flung an arm over the edge of the cliff and tried to pull himself up. We did see his arm and part of his head. Then he lost his grip and fell crashing and hollering down the hillside to a ledge about 15 feet below.

Everything went completely quiet. I thought, "How ironic to die on one's wedding day." Linda walked to the edge of the cliff and took a long drag off her cigarette. She tossed her hair back and exclaimed, "You're not getting out of it that easy, Montoya," then turned on her heel and strode away.

Jerry regained consciousness and began climbing again. This time, his friends helped him, pushing from below and pulling from above. He made it to the top, one wrist bleeding from a deep laceration, and bleeding from scratches on his face and arms. He and his crew moved a short distance away to rest and ready themselves for the ceremony.

Finally, Waco called Jerry and Linda forward. Waco asked Linda, "Well, do ya?" and Linda answered, "Yes." He turned to Jerry and asked, "Well, do ya?" Jerry said, "I - don't - know" and walked away. A dozen groomsmen followed him, and together they formed a circle with their arms over each other's shoulders. They stood there with their heads down, talking things over. The circle began to sway around and around but its members remained upright. Jerry decided to give it another go. This time he answered "I do."

This was followed by lots of yelling and hollering, but there was no hugging or kissing. The Viking and I, along with Mary Margaret--well, we were done. We hightailed it back down the hill and to the truck and didn't stay for the wedding supper.

Linda took some classes but didn't become a diesel mechanic. She and Jerry got a divorce and she moved to Arizona, I think. She died there - a violent death, we were told. Their son came to live with Jerry.

Along the way, Jerry cleaned up his act. We got to know him, and he and The Viking really made a connection, especially after The Viking offered to help him do some work on his house. We came to respect and understand him, and we were glad of that.

Jerry passed on a few years ago. According to his wishes, Jerry's friends helped dig his grave. One of them looked at Jerry's coffin while this was happening and said, "Well, this is just like Jerry. Lying down while everyone else is doing all the work."

He rests in peace on his land.

Remembering MizLa

Greetings From Domelandia,

It's a mild mid-winter morning here in Southern Colorado. Just enough warmth to tease me into thinking about Spring and gardening. I walk over the long hill and back most days. This morning - I am not making this up - I saw a black caterpillar on the road. He was cold, but alive. I tell him, "It's JANUARY, for Pete's sake! Where did you come from?"

On windy days I keep to the forest where the trees protect me from the wind. It is quiet there. A couple of days ago I passed one of our favorite picnic spots, and memories of a gorgeous summer day came back to me. Our daughters and I are in the box canyon south of the house. Strawberry blonde daughter isn't walking yet--she's riding in the baby carrier on my back. The Redhead is holding my hand, and I'm helping her negotiate rocks, cactus, and other obstacles that can trip up a three-year-old. We sit down in the shade and take sandwiches and drinks from our picnic bag. A lizard scurries by and takes refuge under a nearby rock. His small body shines iridescent green and blue, and his sides move in and out as he breathes. The girls have a good long look at this mysterious creature in the deliberate fashion of the very young. I don't hurry them. We have plenty of time.

When I was a child, my friend MizLa gave me the gift of time. I think of her a lot when I'm outside in the garden, or feeding my birds, or walking in the woods. She's one of the reasons I am a nature freak.

Dad worked in an office all day, and Mom spent most of her time cooking, cleaning, and doing laundry for our family of seven. Her afternoon hours were spent preparing the large evening meal in her one-woman kitchen, so we kids made ourselves scarce until dinnertime.

Marjorie LaMartine (MizLa) lived three houses down from our home on Rosebud Drive. From the time I was five or six years old, her house provided the perfect after-school destination. I'd find her outside, performing the daily rituals of tending bird feeders, scrubbing birdbaths, and watering her yard as well as an amazing variety of plants. Her yard, shaded by huge trees, was an oasis in the hot Texas afternoon. Exotic flowers and plants, streaked and spotted with improbable colors, unfurled graceful leaves. The soft fragrance of poppies and bluebonnets drifted through the air as we moved inside the cool green canopy.

I had so many questions, and she knew so much! She told me what species of birds liked which kind of seeds, and that some ate insects instead. The birds added their musical opinions, and she knew every voice. Cardinals, mockingbirds, sparrows, titmice, starlings, and wrens were easy to identify, but if we saw a visitor to her sanctuary whose name we didn't know, we'd find it in her bird book. She had other books, too--books about rocks and minerals, stars and planets, fish, flowers, trees, mammals, and reptiles. (After she explained why toads and lizards and snakes were good for gardens, I no longer thought they were icky). An hour at MizLa's was more educational than science class, and a zillion times more fun.

MizLa wasn't like other ladies I knew. She had a cosmopolitan presence, from her slim, stylish clothes to the way she arranged her pale hair. She wore tailored blouses, slacks (not jeans!), and canvas shoes to work in her yard, but she always 'dressed' for dinner. Her husband, Francis, arrived home at six from his job as an engineer, and expected dinner to be on the table and his wife to look presentable. The dinner hour was their time to reconnect, and I respected the boundaries of our friendship. I went home when she started dinner.

She and Francis had no children. (She often laughingly introduced my folks as 'the parents of her children'). Her house was immaculate, and the shelves in the living room of her tiny home held books with mysterious titles. She had an amazing collection of knickknacks. My favorite was a green ceramic lady on tiptoe, arms stretched up and out, captured forever in a moment of ecstasy. MizLa's home furnishings were eclectic. Lace doilies accompanied Navajo rugs in the bedroom. Placed in front of an ordinary chair in the living room was an ottoman constructed from the legs and feet of a former moose. My sister and I loved to pet those strange and wonderful legs.

One afternoon, I received a phone call from MizLa. "Can you and Madeline come over and bring your doll baby bottles?" The excitement in her voice told me something was up. "Yes, we have..MOM!! Can we take our baby bottles to MizLa's?...No, we don't know what for...MizLa, what for?" MizLa: "I have something to show you-you'll see." "MOM! MizLa says WE'LL SEE!"

Sister and I hurriedly gathered our doll bottles and raced to MizLa's. We found her in the living room, kneeling beside a small cardboard box lined with an old sweater. We sat down and peeked into the box. Nestled inside were five baby cottontail rabbits.

MizLa said, "Well, let me just TELL you what happened today! I saw Chessie (her cat) attack a rabbit. I tried to get the poor thing away from her, but it was too late. Then I saw a baby rabbit just lying on the ground. I picked it up and saw a hole underneath it. I realized I'd found the mama rabbit's nest. I kept reaching inside and pulling bunnies out until I had five of them in my pocket!"

Sister and I sat by the box, listening to MizLa's story and feeling sad at the tragedy of the murdered mother rabbit and her orphans. Poor babies! They were little snips of soft brown velvet. "They're so sweet!" I was barely able to contain myself. "Can we hold them?"

MizLa smiled. "We're going to try to save these babies, and when they're grown, we're going to set them free. They're not pets--they're wild animals, so it's best if we don't handle them too much. It's not good for them when they're so tiny, and we don't want them to get too used to people."

I'm sure my sister and I would've protested if this announcement had been delivered by anyone other than MizLa, but we believed her. Instantly, we wanted what was best for the bunnies. We were content to hold them only to feed them or to move them out of the way when we changed their litter. Every day after school, we'd race to MizLa's house to take care of the rabbits, and each day they grew bigger and more active. Soon they were moved to a cage outdoors and started eating rabbit food and grass. We loved them, but we didn't give them names.

The day before they were released into the woods near our house, I said goodbye. It was a lovely late-spring afternoon and I sat beside their cage one last time. The afternoon sun slanted through the trees and shone through their long transparent ears. I saw the veins lit there; they were tiny blue rivers. I stroked their soft fur, and knew that tomorrow they would be free. I was happy for them.

It was hard for MizLa when my sisters and I grew up and moved too far away for daily visits. We stayed in touch, though, and brought our own children to meet her. It's been a long time since we heard the news that she was gone, but I remember feeling that the world had lost a very special woman.

She is still with us. I felt her presence this morning while I was looking at that caterpillar and wondering how it came to be here. Thank you, MizLa, for all the wonderful memories you gave us, and for the gifts that we don't remember. For nurturing us with your love of nature, and for loving us.

Bringing Glory Home

Greetings from Domelandia,

We had another great Christmas with the family here. Our little granddaughter was fascinated with the horses. I lifted her onto Glory's back and held her there as the old horse placidly finished her alfalfa breakfast.

Glory Dun is a part of our family. She's been with us since that gorgeous autumn day in 1979 when The Viking and I borrowed a neighbor's pickup and headed off to the LaJunta sale barn to buy a horse.

I remember that day, and the sound of meadow larks, and the sense of adventure that possessed us. I'd had a horse when I was growing up in Texas. I missed riding and caring for a horse, so I was excited at the prospect of getting a young horse and training it to be my gentle companion.

We'd heard that some of the horses were bought and broke to work cattle. Gentle, older horses were purchased as 'kid' horses, and some went to the meat packing companies. Those horses were injured, old, or believed to be too wild to be of any use. The mares in this group often had foals at their sides. We knew the meat packers had no use for these little ones--they didn't weigh much--and that they could be bought for very little money. That was about how much money we had, and we hoped it was enough to buy a foal.

We found the auction barn, walked in, and registered as official bidders. We found seats close to the round arena and waited for the auction to begin. The smells of the concession stand mixed with odors of manure, sawdust, and the unmistakable aroma of horse. Underlying that normally sweet and sweaty smell was also the smell of fear, though I didn't recognize it right away.

The clomp and scuff of boots echoed off the building's metal roof as buyers came in and sat down. Faces shadowed by stained Stetsons, ranchers shifted their wads of chew to say howdy to friends. Spittoons were provided, but evidence of faulty aim littered the floor, and cigarette smoke hung in the air.

The auctioneer sat at a table on a raised platform across from the buyers. He said the horses would be sold individually or in lots, depending on how the owners wanted them shown, and he'd be giving us a description of what we were looking at as they came in. He introduced us to the wrangler, whose job it was to drive the horses into the ring, point out any injuries, and to keep them moving so the buyers could have a good look at them. The side of his face bore the deep imprint of a hoof, eloquently illustrating the chancy nature of his job.

The best horses came first, mostly under saddle, ridden by their owners. Some of these folks had fallen on hard times and needed money--it was easy to see they were unhappy and I felt sorry for them.

The bidding began. The auctioneer spoke in a foreign language, punctuated with staccato acknowledgements when he saw a wave or nod from the crowd. Some of the sellers accepted the offered price, some didn't, and the sale continued.

Injured horses were sold next. One horse hobbled in on three legs--the fourth dangled uselessly. He dragged himself painfully for a few steps and gave up, his head down and his sides heaving. I felt the blood leave my face, and my stomach rolled over. The auctioneer drawled, "Well, boys, we know where he's headed," and the meat packer make his first purchase of the day.

Soon the mares with foals were driven in. If they had good breeding and confirmation, they were sold together. It was apparent that many of them had never been touched--manes were thick with burrs, ribs could be counted--and their terrified whinnies filled the arena. One group came and went. Then the wrangler opened the gate and a wild black mare galloped in, a tiny steel-gray filly at her side. My eyes filled with tears, and I knew she was my horse.

The bidding started at $25. In my excitement I bid against myself a couple of times before the auctioneer told me, "hold on a minute, sis." I couldn't tell which person I was bidding against, anyway. I was crying too hard. Then the bidding reached $45 - my $45!! - and the filly was mine. It was time to get the heck out of that place and get my horse safely home.

Money changed hands, paperwork was signed, and before long I was backing the truck to the loading ramp. The filly was there, scared out of her mind, and looking for her mother. It took two grown men to hold her still long enough to get a halter on her and to wrestle her into the back of the truck.

At this point, I had a rude awakening. The image I'd had of a tiny, helpless foal who would obligingly stand or lie down in the back of the truck was a fantasy. She was only a couple of months old, but amazingly strong. She reared up, plunged forward, and leapt neatly out of the truck. It's a miracle she didn't break a leg-or two. More grown men appeared and got her back into the truck. They got her down onto her side, and The Viking positioned himself on top of her and held her down. This method seemed to work, so we started home.

The return trip was a harrowing experience. At times the filly would seem to relax, but if The Viking loosened his hold, she felt it immediately and began thrashing around. The blanket we'd carefully installed as a windbreak and sun shield snapped and popped in the wind, and we had to stop and take it down. Those 100 miles were some of the longest I've ever driven. The Viking was tired, and from time to time I could see him being tossed around in the truck bed, struggling to keep the filly down. I gritted my teeth, said a prayer, and drove on.

At last, we drove into Trinidad. Just another 20 miles or so and we'd be home! The filly appeared to be worn out, and as we drove through town, we were both thinking of getting her settled, getting our supper, and tending to the Viking's bruises. We breathed premature sighs of relief.

At a stop sign in downtown Trinidad, a policeman suddenly stepped in front of our truck, raised his hand, and blew his whistle, indicating we were to stay put. Then the Trinidad High School Homecoming Parade of 1979, complete with majorettes, cheerleaders, and band, marched by right in front of the truck. The horse and The Viking started jumping together again, this time to the rousing tune of the Miner's Fight Song.

Half an hour later, we were all home in one piece, bruised, tired, and grateful.

We know now how unprepared we were and how fortunate we were that nobody got hurt. We've done quite a few things through the years that weren't supposed to work, but more often than not, we got some luck and lived to tell the tale.

The foal grew into a beautiful gray horse. Steady and willing, she taught our daughters to ride, and carried them on her back for many years. She has plenty to eat, some horse friends, and lots of room. She's been able to live as horses were intended - free to wander the hills. She's achieved the ripe old age of 31 years - a good long life for a well-loved friend.