Soul Ranch

Never a Dull Moment (with a Pig)

2009-06-30T19:38:00.000-07:00

“A pig in the house?” My grandmother was aghast! “It will be ok, she is house trained,” I reassured her.

Petunia was a pot-bellied pig, small by no means. At 150 pounds, she was more imposing than the dogs at the front door. People couldn’t believe their eyes. More than one near collision occurred on the street when a pig was spotted rooting in the flower beds or following me patiently as I carried in groceries.

Paddy, as we affectionately call her, came to us as most of our animals have. She needed a home. Her owner was moving and couldn’t take her. My grandmother had just moved into my home the same summer. She was not fond of pigs in the first place, let a lone one whose snorts punctuated conversations.

Paddy must have sensed grandma’s angst, something like when a dog senses fear and nips heels. One day arriving home from an outing, I found Paddy Pig calmly standing in the middle of grandma’s office looking sedate and slightly mischievous. It was then I realized that she had found grandma’s stash of goodies. Cookie crumbs, a torn up Ritz cracker box and the saucy new lip color she was wearing were dead give-aways. Cheetos must be her favorite, because the only evidence of them left was her orange grin, she even ate the bag.

Telling grandma that day that the pig ate her goodies was not easy. My grandmother is a calm person, but I could read it in her eyes. She could really do without the pig!!

Paddy was not only a drawer vandal, she could get into anything zippered and loved to find Aspen’s diaper bag, which always had an emergency cache of treats. She would unzip it, find the baggie of snacks and munch, bag and all until it was perforated a thousand times, the sweet treat inside dissolved to mush and squished into her mouth. We always found the bags intact except for the perforations and had to marvel at her patience. Her favorite was bubble gum and she used all of her wiles to get it, even begging on her haunches like a puppy for a treat. You knew she had had a successful raid when you opened the front door and heard the steady smack, smack of a pig on a Strawberry Hubba Bubba high. We learned to hide the bubble gum and put any treats far off the floor.

Food was not her only vice, she used to steal the pillows off my bed by pulling on the comforter until all the pillows came off with it, then she would comfortably build a nest, comforter and all. Her protest being so loud when I found my bed bare and asked her to re-locate that I would sleep on the couch so I wouldn’t wake Aspen.

Paddy pig was also an early riser. Sometime around 4 am every morning, the alarm in her very bright pig brain would start chirping. If I so much as turned over, she was sure it was time to go out. With what seemed to someone who had been in a dead sleep, the good morning gusto of a very annoying drill sergeant she would persist, not for very long, mind you, until I let her in the back yard. When she wanted back in, she would squeal like I was scalding her. I am sure the neighbors wondered.

After 5 years, everyone has gotten used to Paddy the pig. It’s kind of nice to have your own garbage backyard disposal and garden fertilizer all in one. Walkers have changed their routes just to stop by and say “Hi” to Petunia, “Paddy” Pig each morning. She is a good deer deterrent too. Everyone close to us has built deer proof fences around their gardens, we only need a pig. The mischief factor has decreased significantly, she now sleeps on a fluffy dog bed in a ground floor room because her legs are getting arthritic and stairs are not easy any more.

I had raised pigs for 4-H and FFA, though I loved them, the possibility of one curled up in nest of my comforter and pillows never occurred to me. I never dreamed I would have a pig for a house pet. Now I can’t imagine life without one.

Want to know more about my passions beyond pigs see www.contemporarywesterndesign.com

Only Me

2009-04-27T20:50:00.000-07:00

My schedule had been crazy. I was trying to launch a book, be a single mom and sell a territory for Cowboys & Indians Magazine. I had been on the road for several weeks, bouncing from one city to another, lecturing and doing signings. It just happened that I had a 24 hour layover in Cody before I went on to the NFR in Las Vegas. JeNeil had been house and animal sitting. In the days before I arrived for a welcome stay in my own bed, it had gotten very cold and snowy with temperatures dipping well below zero.

One panic call to my cell phone went something like this, “Paddy is standing in the middle of the living room floor with a plastic bag in her mouth, munching. I can’t get it away from her, what do I do? She just snorts and chases me away when I get close.” Poor JeNeil, unless you are used to a pig and their behavior, and even if you are when they turn on you with disgust, it makes your heart leap into your throat. It is always very fast and incredibly noisy. My reply, “Don’t worry. Just let her be. It will come out the other end.” The second call came as I was about to board a plane in Charlotte, NC after lecturing at High Point. I was laden with car seat, briefcase, diaper bag and a 2 year old pulling me down the ramp. As we stood in line to board, I tried to keep my voice down, “What do you mean she hasn’t gone out for 24 hours? Has she pooped anywhere?” “No. Good.” “Don’t be afraid of her, she’ll make a terrible fuss, just push her out the door, leave her for a bit. Hopefully she will go.” Aaah, that Paddy, she had a way of bluffing so good no one would go near her, but me.

I made it home that afternoon, exhausted and unsure where to begin to prepare to go again the next day. After checking everything out, I found poor Paddy pig, she lay on her fluffy bed, tail straight out… two little pig poops on the floor. At first I was angry, because she is very house broke. Then I realized something was wrong. She was constipated. “Oh, Jeez, what do I do with a constipated pig?” I thought. Doctoring animals was nothing new to me. I had done everything in the book growing up. Blood, guts, feces, I had experienced it all. Nothing really bothered me. I called the vet. Scott just laughed. “Only you Thea, he teased, would have a constipated pig. Only me, I thought would have a 24 hour layover, the first in weeks at my own home, and I would spend it giving the pig an enema. I shook my head. By this time it was late and I couldn’t go anywhere for supplies. What to use? Hmmmmm. First I tried the turkey baster. Nope that doesn’t work, it won’t hold water, it dribbles out before I can get it anywhere.

Eventually armed with yellow dishwashing gloves and extra bulb syringe for sucking baby boogers, an ice cream bucket with warm soapy water and a towel, Hobbie the cat and I went to rescue Paddy pig from her discomfort.

Only me, I thought again as I pulled on the gloves and covered her eyes with the towel so I got a head start on the process. Hobbie perched on a small table just over my shoulder peered on with fascination. Tail up, syringe in place, water in, rinse, repeat. All the sudden there was pig poop shooting forth like little canon balls. Poor Hobbie. On his perch, he was like a bandit caught in the glare of headlights. He was at the right height and as I managed to get out of the way of the barrage he was pounded with little hard balls of pig poop. He jumped, leapt and twisted, wondering what the devil was shooting at him. At this point I was in such a fit of hysterical laughter I couldn’t stand up, let alone rescue my poor assistant. Needless to say, we accomplished our mission. Paddy pig was much relieved. We made our 6 am flight with straight faces and a really good story.

Only me.

In the photo: Paddy Pig begging for treats. Isn't she cute?

Want to know more about what I do, besides play veterinarian? You can see what I do everyday at www.contemporarywesterndesign.com

My First Love

2009-03-30T09:05:00.000-07:00

When I was little, I had a thing for horses. My parents used to tell a story about losing track of me one day in the corrals when they were working cows. After searching high and low, they found me. In the stud pen, standing directly under the 3 year old Appaloosa stallion, named Sundowner, scratching his belly. Panic set in and they tried to remove me. I was all of 3 myself and I went kicking and screaming, literally!

From that day on, Sundowner and I were buddies. I already had a Shetland pony named Peanuts. Ornery, was not a strong enough description for this little guy. I think ponies are put on this earth to make young riders either tough as nails or cure them from riding for the rest of their lives. When he wasn’t trying to take a hunk out of me when I was stretching my little legs to get on, he was rubbing me off on a tree into the irrigation ditch or planting his feet and refusing to go any further. When I kicked him harder, he just got on his knees and went to trying to roll. When the saddle wasn’t on, he as a gentleman. When it was, he became a monster. Looking back, I remember sitting in the middle of the field kicking him with all my might and him not budging, not one inch for what seemed an hour, that is until, I got off and led him home.

The irony is he and Sundowner were also buddies. In fact, one rarely went anywhere without the other. One big beautifully colored Appy stud, one little bay Shetland: what a pair they made.

When my dad wasn’t riding Sundowner I was. I loved him. I was on him even when forbidden by my parents. I loved slipping on him off the corral fence and feeling terribly naughty and free all at the same time, riding without one single thing. As I got older the exquisitely trained and loved horse became my big teddy bear. He turned from bay with spots to white with albino eyes. He was my 4-H horse, he was the one who I hugged and cried with giant sobs into his mane when my parents fought. He carried me on rides of freedom out into the reservation as I grew and dreamed of being on my own.

I tenderly rubbed salve around his pale skin around his eyes and nose when it was sunburned. I brushed and brushed the white horse whom I could do the Roy Rogers leap onto from behind or fall off in a failed attempt of trick riding and feel nuzzling on my back. I could get on Sundowner, lift a calf onto the saddle, ford the river and never fear, for a moment, of being left on my behind in the dirt.

Now, years later, I think about the impact that Sundowner made in my life. He seems like some kind of Deity to me now. He was who I ran to when I was sad, heaving gasping, tearful sobs into the warmth of his neck. He was the one I ran to and hugged with delight when I was happy. He was the horse I could ride with nothing more than a piece of sisal twine around his neck, running like the wind through the fields bareback giving my dad a heart attack. Little girls need horses. Big girls need horses. Just the smell of a horse today takes me back to Sundowner, though I’ve had lots of wonderful horses in my life since. He was my first love. And there is something special about your first love that you never forget.

Aspen, my 6 year old, has found her first love in Kitten, shown above, all 17 1/2 hands of him. He got his hame from following her like a kitten and putting his nose down to be kissed. I don't think an earthquake could move this big guy when that little girl is giving him attention.

What to know more about what I do? It's all about western design at www.contemporarywesterndesign.com.

Up A Tree

2009-01-12T14:54:00.000-08:00

Wyoming weather can be as fickle as anyone might imagine. Two weeks ago, it was nearly 40 below with the wind chill. This morning it is 40 above with a warm breeze and there is water from melting snow running every where: a classic Chinook.

I was out early, taking the dogs on their much anticipated walk. As I leapt the snow bank spanning the rushing water in the gutter, slush splashed everywhere. Across the street I run to honking horns and waves from familiar folks passing by, winging a Frisbee for Jack as I go. The wind suddenly picks up and off through the sky goes the saucer with Jack chasing, up, up and in a sudden arch into a very tall pine tree. Ugh! A dejected little heeler sits down under the tree and looks at me through those eyes that are saying, “Mom, how could you?”

Tossing the ball for Chance to chase while I put together a game plan, I ponder. “Do I go home and get the broom?” “ Is it so high I need the broom and lariat?” (Don’t laugh it works). It seems to be only 12 or 14 feet up. Hmmm. With Jack looking on and Chance returning with his tennis ball, I grab the lowest branch. I can do this I tell myself. Shoot, can’t quite reach the next one, going to have to scramble, not exactly easy with a winter coat, boots and gloves on. “Sure just watch me fall out and break my arm,” I muse. After some scrambling and stretching, I manage to make it up far enough to sit steadily on a big branch. Out, out I reach toward the Frisbee, not quite. One more level to go. By this time, my knit hat is full of pine needles and little branches from fighting my way through the thick tree. “Geez, what I do for you Jack,” I say aloud. Twelve feet below they both turn their heads cockeyed and look at me, “Are you talking to us?” They seem to say.

Up one more level through branches, falling bark and needles I go until I can reach the branch that is holding the turquoise and magenta Flippy Flopper that Jack just got for Christmas. Now you understand why it couldn’t be left in the tree. Shake, shake, shake. “Come I on!” I say. Shake, shake…. Slide, slide. Stuck. Groan. “How long has this been going on?” I wonder in my head. “Am I going to be late taking Aspen for school?” “Can anyone see me?” I am pretty sure they can’t. For this reason, I am glad that pine trees are so thick. Ok on to business! Shake, shake, shake. Slide, bump, stop, slide. I am holding my breath. Free. Out it goes right to Jack waiting below. He is grateful in his own dog way. Now, like a cat that has climbed up then looks where she has gone and doesn’t want to come down, I think about my descent. Embarrassing it would be if I couldn’t get out of the tree. But alas it has never stopped me before. Swinging off the branch I am on, I catch the one below and shimmy my way down, finally dropping the last few feet to the ground. Wiping the bark off my gloves and pulling branches out of my hat, I giggle. “What a way to start the day!”

Off we go!

Sweet Juxtaposition

2008-11-19T08:51:00.000-08:00

The clouds, dark with rain and covering the Wind River’s, had moved in swiftly from the west and were starting to sweep down the valley. As a tractor idled, the sound of an air hose rose above the din, dust was blown out of the baler before it was put away for the winter. The night before the moon had made its ascent into the heavens over the butte as a peculiar fiery red egg shape, waning a little more each evening as the fall equinox approached.

The day had been busy: a concerted effort to beat the weather which had not been kind. A late frost and a cool summer had delayed the growing season and an early frost and rain had made it nearly impossible to get into the fields to windrow. As soon as that task was accomplished, more rain; more waiting and praying. The second cutting was dearly needed. The summer had seemed to be a trial by fire with several accidents, challenge after challenge, but true to the universe’s grace; gifts of warm sunshine and strong willing hands had made it all come together.

My jeans were covered with sawdust, my hair smelled of chain saw exhaust, but the relief of having wood blocked was evident in my mind. It could snow and a warm fire could burn. A little girl with grass stains on her knees squatted, making mud pies for the dogs on the porch as they eagerly watched the process with curious eyes and wagging tongues. The quagmire was a curious mix of mud, sawdust and dried flowers laced with dog food. I couldn’t help but smile in contentment at the whole scene; one of ease and peace with a sprinkle of relief.

Glancing at my watch it was nearly 4 o’ clock: a good time for a little break. As I ground the coffee beans to a fine espresso powder, the prospect of the final product nearly made my mouth water: a perfect unexpected indulgence for everyone. Covered with dust, soot and sweat from the days work, a little shot would surely elicit a smile. As I watched the little silver pot percolate, I marveled at the contrast of the scene. The people: two men I admired -one I had grown up with, the other the love of my life- working on farm equipment, my little girl who was both my twin soul and greatest challenge, and me, full of generations of earthy ranch blood. We were stopping to take an espresso break in the middle of nowhere Wyoming. Without plausible thought, we seemed to pretend that the mix of freshly made bales strung over the field waiting to be picked up was a perfect compliment to an Italian espresso. Sweet juxtaposition.

Learn more about Thea at www.contemporarywesterndesign.com

The Black Baldy and Miss Frou Frou

2008-11-12T21:50:00.000-08:00

The brown border’s ears perked and his eyes locked on something as I sat stroking his silky head. My back was to the window so I couldn’t see what was going on. Suddenly a little girl in a pink princess dress and fancy white shoes went flying through the door with four dogs in tow. They were: the self proclaimed king, Jack, an aussie heeler, the flighty border collie/aussie mix who lived to work, the old black lab whose snout was freckled in white named Tar and the new one, a spaniel/beagle mix named Chance. He was found dumped on the rez. To add to the commotion, there was the gentleman of the house standing in the door, "barking" orders with half a piece of homemade pizza in his hand.

I spun around to see what all the excitement was about but didn’t see a thing, only dogs, and pink fluff disappearing around the lilac bushes in the corner of the yard. I could hear all variations of barks from the dogs and high pitched yips from a little girl.

Suddenly, I saw a bald face heifer, her tail in the air jet across the north end of the new seeding. Four dogs, only two that should know what they are doing and one that really did, in full pursuit. The chase team included a little girl in frou- frou running in a jagged formation. The heifer hit the corner and turned to meet her pursuers. I can’t imagine what she might be thinking in her smallish cow brain, it could only be slight terror and ultimate confusion.

With a little wrangling, the dogs and little princess were sent south away from the heifer giving her just enough breathing room to feel her way along the fence and back out through the gate into the neighbors where she had come from.

Dogs came jogging back to the house, victorious. One little girl, net skirts and shoes that were not so white anymore stormed into the house, “Mom, there was a heifer in here, we got her out.”

Ahh, the joy of pure unadulterated accomplishments!

from the Archives, "On the Eastfork"

2008-11-12T21:40:00.001-08:00

Finally, the snow was out of the high country. We could take the horses and hit the trail.

For me, it’s like an itch. I have to scratch it. I get those itches to travel, hike, bike, ride….. I am an itchy person, you might say.

It has been seven months, since I had seen a mountain trail from the back of a horse and believe me there is nothing like it. Talk about feeling free and in charge!

We packed sandwiches in our saddle bags, cameras and bear spray (it is that time of year) and loaded the trailer with horses who hadn’t been ridden in a long time. Drove an hour to the trailhead and piled out giddy with excitement.

All Aspen could say is “Mom are we ready”, “Mom are we ready?!”

The East Fork Valley of the Absaroka Mountains is stunning with its many elevations and varied climates. The floor: high mountain desert, climbing into mountain timber and meadows and then above the tree line to alpine landscape.

We made our way through aspen groves and climbed through the timber to where we could see for miles: Gannett Peak to the south, and a valley of beautiful ranches below.

The smell of pine, aspen and forest floor mixed with that of the horses and saddle leather are some of the most enchanting smells in the world. Especially for one who grew up in their midst and longs to be back ‘in the saddle’ again on every occasion possible.

In a high mountain meadow we stopped for lunch and marveled at our good fortune. Stepping into the wilderness after sitting in front of a computer for days on end is like pouring sparkling water over ice to quench your thirst from being in the desert.

By the time we got home, we were tired, happy and ready to take on whatever the world sent our way.

Mother nature… thank you for the lift.

Originally published on the first contemporarywesterndesign.com website June 2007

from the Archives, "Everything is Better with Butter"

2008-11-12T21:39:00.000-08:00

Growing up, we were almost totally self- sufficient. We went to town once a month at the most. Otherwise, we grew or raised practically everything we needed right there on the ranch. I remember once a friend offered me a yogurt when I was 10 or 11 and I had no idea what she was talking about. We didn’t drink soft drinks, ate very little candy and rarely ate anything that was not homemade

One of the things I missed most when I went to college was what my dad always called “wild milk:” fresh, unpasteurized, homogenized, straight-from-the-cow milk. I could hardly stand to drink what I bought from the store. For 18 years, we had milked a cow and that meant we had fresh cream, butter, and cottage cheese, too. Not to mention the strongest handshake in the state. I didn’t realize how good I had it.

My mother made bread once a week and I was usually in charge of churning the butter. When the fresh bread came out of the oven, there was a rush for hot bread and butter. Yum!

I’ve always wanted my little girl to experience some of those grassroots things. I think they’re very important. So little of the population even really knows where food comes from or how it is made. In our house we still make everything from scratch, no mixes here!

I’ve been lucky enough to purchase a share in a milk cow and now we have fresh milk. After saving the cream off several gallons, I had enough to churn. Finding the churn was a little bit of a challenge, but one was procured. We went through the ritual of dumping in the cream and letting it rise to room temperature, all the while a little girl was running by giving the handle a quick turn, begging to make butter.

When it was ready, it was ready! Ten minutes later we had a pound and half of beautiful, hand-churned butter ready to be worked, salted and stored.

How good can life get?!

For great information about Real Milk and all of its benefits check out this site www.westonaprice.org

Originally published on the first contemporarywesterndesign.com site June 2007

from the Archives, "Gus-Gus the Goose"

2008-11-12T21:37:00.000-08:00

Double Take. Was it real or a wind up toy?

That’s what went through my mind as I watched this tiny little creature intrepidly making its way over the black top of a busy parking lot outside our favorite little restaurant, the Sundance Café, in Dubois, Wyoming.

It was not a wind up, but a little, green-gray gosling fresh out of Horse Creek. Lost? Obviously.

Aspen and I tried to herd it back to the river. Ever tried to herd a goose? Impossible! So I swooped it up, put him in my coat and trooped over to the creek, to its siblings, the goose and gander.

Unfortunately they panicked, and off they went. Into the creek went the gosling, tweeting and twittering for his family as they went in opposite directions: gander upstream, goose and goslings bobbing down stream. He caught the current, but wouldn’t stay in it and back to shore he came. I put him in again, straining to see if the goose had stopped, but she was rounding the bend and quickly out of sight.

I couldn’t just walk away. My heart told me something wasn’t right. The little guy wouldn’t stay in the river. So I watched. Downstream it promptly found the shore, and out it came, fearlessly making its way into a motel parking lot.

That was enough. I couldn’t stand it. I made tracks for him, gathered him up with all the mommy instincts I had and took him home. On the way we discovered it had a blind eye.

We don’t know if it is a boy or girl, but we know that Gus-Gus is safe and sound. Swimming in his pool( a huge iron skillet) in the kitchen, tucked into our shirts and an old wool sock to keep him warm (he was only a day or so old when he was found). He even has a playpen made out of gated pipe in the yard so he can go outside.

Our little lost and found recognizes our voices and comes excitedly when it sees us. Can you imagine what Gus-Gus is going to be like in six months? Irrigating partner, playmate, loyal goose friend (yes, we know the downside… goose poop, honking, swimming in Aspen’s pool….)

Gus-Gus, a subtle but noisy reminder of how precious and wonderful life is!

Originally published on the first contemporarywesterndesign.com site May 2007

from the Archives, "Dad"

2008-11-12T21:35:00.000-08:00

I remember the first time I came near the card aisle the first Father’s Day after my dad died. You couldn’t have drug me down it with a bulldozer. In fact, if I remember right, tears sprang to my eyes and I had to turn and leave the store.

My dad was a kind and gentle soul who worked very hard at both ranching and teaching. He could spot a kid who needed someone to believe in him at 1000 yards and I never saw him not make a difference.

It was hard to have your father as a teacher. He had high expectations. I was up to the task and usually rose to the occasion. I learned the FFA creed when I was just six years old, fascinated by the blue and gold jacketed members that stood at the podium in the front of the room and recited its poetic and heartfelt words.

Dad was happy when the ranch was a part of my life that I enjoyed. He needed a good hired hand and was proud that I worked as hard or harder than any boys that he could find. He was tough, but fair. And he rarely disputed my far flung dreams of traveling the world and always made sure that I had a chance to reach to them with several weeks off in the summer to travel.

I remember singing “Little Joe the Wrangler” and “Red River Valley” in the feed truck with him as we finished chores. He was always singing or humming and he taught me early how to dance. He read Thunderhead, Flicka and Green Grass of Wyoming to me each night before bed and I knew I wasn’t the only child that dreamed of horses, wide open spaces and being on a ranch forever.

He gave me his blessing to spread my wings and apply to an Ivy League school for college and hugged me tight when I got on the plane for Japan when I was merely 15.

He taught me how to plan rations, map genetics for the cow herd, plant the right mix of grass for hay and break a horse to ride. There was no question I loved my dad.

I wasn’t there the day he died, 2000 miles away. He had made it through my college graduation and Christmas day. Not long before, we’d found out he had cancer. Six months was all it took.

The irony is that he died in prison, a tragic end to a man I loved so much. I didn’t condone what he had done, but it didn’t change how I felt about him. I couldn’t be by his side that day on December 26th when he said good-bye to earth, but he gave me the greatest gift possible: a life full of love and an understanding that no matter how bad things are there is always good. It’s just up to me to find it.

Thank you, Dad. I love you.

Originally published on the first contemporarywesterndesign.com site June 2007

from the Archives, "Mourning Gus"

2008-11-12T21:34:00.000-08:00

All life is a gift and our gift came in a little bundle of lost fluff.

We marveled over his voracious appetite as he grew, literally, inches everyday. We coddled him in our arms, dug through the snow to get him fresh greens and named him (or her) Gus.

As the sun rose over the Wind River Valley there was a stillness to the yard that seemed unnatural. As I started for my walk I tried not to think about it until Aspen found some tail feathers and my heart constricted. “No!” I thought, “It can’t be. He’s just gone to the pond.” I went for my walk in complete denial trying with all my might to keep positive.

When I returned, we found a trail of feathers and finally the kill site. It simply broke my heart. Gussy was gone. Tracks couldn’t be found to tell us what had gotten him. We can only guess: a hungry fox, coyote or coon? None of which we really wanted to consider as a reality.

I couldn’t help but retreat to the bathroom and sob. A little girl not understanding the weight of the situation kept asking if I wanted a bow in my hair or to watch cartoons. “Would that make you feel better?” Finally in an exasperated attempt to soothe her mommy, she gave me a stuffed animal so I could “hug him, too.”

After all the years of being on the ranch I have lost my share of animals and cried over every single one of them. I will never get used to the fact that life ends; sometimes quickly and unexpectedly.

The really painful part of the situation is that the night before I had been out late checking on the kittens and wondered where Gus was holed up for the night. Usually the dogs are left out to keep any predators away. I thought about it and wondered where the big lab, Tar, was. As it turns out, she was asleep in the closet and I didn’t follow my gut that something was wrong. It makes me sick and the guilt wracks my heart.

Life’s lessons never end and as I mourn the little fuzzy guy who grew into a noble goose and was just learning to fly, I vow not to just fall into bed exhausted next time. I will keep up the vigilance that mothers are so good at and always listen to my intuition.

Gus brought us a lot of joy and for that I am grateful. My dad always had a saying: “Life is hard, she always gives the test first, the lesson after.” Lesson learned.

Originally published on the first contemporarywesterndesign.com site July 2007

from the Archives, "Liquid Gold"

2008-11-12T21:33:00.001-08:00

It’s like gold: providing livelihoods, causing wars and inspiring celebrations. It can be too plentiful and damaging, too slight and devastating. When it’s just right, it’s a beautiful thing.

Water in the west is king, and for months we’ve prayed for snow, rain, hail, anything with the chemical value of H2O. Nothing, but wind. Dry wind sucking the last remaining moisture from the earth, blowing top soil and making trees reach to the heavens, begging for the sky to quench their thirst.

Around the dinner table, we prayed for snow and rain each day and watched the skies. The new seeding was in the ground and we needed moisture before the wind blew it into the next county.

Then, the smell of rain, the clouds hanging low over the mountains. Could it be? I was carefully optimistic as I walked under the moon, watching the clouds push around it, then cover the sphere in a heavy veil. I could smell the sweetness of the spring rain on the mountains. It was close, but would it come on into the valley? I prayed out loud that it would.

My footsteps crunched in the stubble of the alfalfa field and I felt a drop, then another. It was a slow, light sprinkling of precious moisture. Perhaps it would blow over like so many times before. As I stepped inside from my evening walk, I heard the beat of the raindrops crescendo to a beautiful rhythm on the steel roof. It was raining! Finally!

That night I went to bed to the rhythm of the rain, and awoke to a stillness that can only be caused by a heavy covering of snow! White Gold! It’s a beautiful thing.

Originally published on the first contemporarywesterndesign.com site May 2007

from the Archives, "In the Earth"

2008-11-12T21:19:00.000-08:00

I am tired to the bone. Twenty hour days of frantic work, mothering, managing and juggling. Everything is going at such a rapid pace, I feel like I am not even touching the earth as I check things off of my list, run from one task to another, answer another phone, meet another deadline, don’t forget to cook dinner, feed the animals. I know what I need: some grounding.

A friend who is very wise, once said to me, “ When you feel like life is whirling out of control, go sit your bottom down on the ground, put your toes in the dirt, sift its fineness through your hands- and ground yourself again.” She was very wise and very right.

So in the midst of the madness, I’ve come back to the Earth. Stood quietly in the field with the mountains surrounding me, water running near the yellow boots on my feet, water in new corrugations needing to be walked to the end of the field. Slowly I feel peace descending and my world slowing to a pace where thoughts can be attended to and deep breaths of clean, pure air enjoyed.

The dry dirt of the field soaks in the much needed water to nourish the seedlings of alfalfa into a viable crop and I am reminded that my soul too, needs nurturing. The smell of water running over newly worked soil and the essence of alfalfa growing under the spring sun is recognizable not only from my childhood, but a subtle reminder of this life as one that gives me peace. A strange paradoxically world I live in: high tech, fast paced, deadline after deadline versus one filled and governed by mother nature herself. I need them both to fulfill my soul. Every little while the fields of my soul need to be irrigated with the grounding of the earth itself: quiet, animals, crops, trees, the mountains and the soil sifting through my fingers. With the firmness of the earth beneath my feet I am, once again, grounded.

Originally published on the first contemporarywesterndesign.com website May 2007

from the Archives, "Measured in Heartbeats"

2008-11-12T21:15:00.000-08:00

In January 1997, I was a marketing specialist for a corporate management company and feeling very unfulfilled. To try to fill the void, I had started working with the Japanese government to find unique Wyoming products and export them to Japan. Having been an exchange student to Japan when I was 16, I felt a special connection to the land of the rising sun.

In my search, I stumbled across the Western Design Conference. The event was a mere three years old and had already experienced several incarnations. I was fascinated. Being a fifth generation Wyoming native and having grown up in the Cowboy state, I thought I was pretty savvy about what happened within its borders, but I had never heard of the Western Design Conference.

After a successful buyers meeting with Mike Patrick, one of the event’s founders, I was asked if I would consider the executive director’s position at the Conference. What a delightful, unexpected turn of events. After phone calls, interviews and meetings, I knew I wanted the job more than anything else I had ever wanted.

A nerve wracking few days passed before I got the call. I was the new executive director! What I didn’t know was that this was the beginning of an incredible journey that would define my future.

Restructuring a fabulous event that had already outgrown its clothes was my first challenge and I welcomed that challenge. In truth, I didn’t know what I was doing, but I had ideas and charged ahead to implement them.

Over six years, I poured my blood, sweat and tears into the Conference. Never had I experienced anything so rewarding and frustrating at the same time. Looking back, I have no regrets. I learned so much, made friends that continue to inspire me everyday and most of all, I found that niche that I had been looking for: western design. For the first time in a long time I felt fulfilled. The experience is the reason I am writing to you today, the reason that I feel so strongly about western craft, fashion and art, the reason I found purpose in my life.

I have never forgotten the words of Suzanne Warner at an awards breakfast a number of years ago at Cassie’s. She said, “The time we put into our pieces is not measured in days, hours or minutes, but heartbeats.” To me that said it all. The pieces created by this phenomenal group of artists are not works that are made just to sustain them every day, but creations that are infused with a part of their soul. I wear a bracelet made by Suzanne and every time I put it on, I wonder just how many heartbeats it took to create. The light and love it holds is evidence of the power of creating by hand and with the guidance of one’s soul.

May every life that is touched by an artist retain a piece of the inspiration to pass on to another.

Originally published on the first contemporarywesterndesign.com website September 2007

from the Archives, "The Lake"

2008-11-12T21:12:00.000-08:00

When I was a kid there was a favorite place to cool off in the summer. About 10 miles west of the ranch was a lake that boasted great sand beaches and refreshingly cold water. Stealing away from the hay fields in July as the sun was making its way to the other side of the world, I would languish in the cool water as it washed away the dust and worries of the day. Just a few days ago, I was driving by that lake, the sky was hazy from a dramatic summer fire a mountain range away. The glorious and tragic thing about fires in the west is that they make the sunsets beyond beautiful while they wreak havoc on the landscape. I couldn’t help but stop and snap a shot of the scene before while Aspen was wondering what in the heck her mother was doing shooting into the smoky sky.

Back at my desk, I was digging around in an old file, I came across an essay that I wrote 15 years ago for a Composition Class while a student at Chadron State College in Chadron, Nebraska. It seemed very fitting that I share it with you. It is as fitting today as it was then about the lake that was my retreat

The Lake

A cool breeze reminded me that it was getting late and I must go. Darkness was covering the summer sky just as a blanket covers a child, gently, and with promises of a new tomorrow. The sun had gone, leaving traces of its glow on the horizon in hues I had never been able to find in my crayon box. Dark silhouettes jutted into my colors, striking granite poses that almost came to life in the endlessly rippling lake, which so graciously reflected their majestic power. The water carried with it a rhythm that lolled my senses into worlds where I could dream, walk backwards in life or ponder the day. And it never let me go away feeling empty, as its tender, frothy edges tickled the sand with whispers of advice; leaving me to create my own resolution. As I sat beyond the outstretched fingers of its edge, I watched the sand being carried to and fro; all the while marveling at the beauty God had created.

I hope you, too, have a place like The Lake.

Originally published on the first contemporarywesterndesign.com site July 2007

from the Archives, "Tribute to Grandma Nona"

2008-11-12T21:09:00.000-08:00

We’ve been grouchy at each other, cursed each other silently, appreciated the companionship and loved each other immensely.

She’s 55 years older than I am. She’s seen both world wars, the Depression, the telephone, radio, tv and lots of other new-fangled gadgets. And she’s not afraid of any of them. You can spot her any day of the week, writing her memoirs on the computer and chasing about the state with her cell phone.
She’s helped her mother bake bread for the outlaws of the Hole in the Wall country who served as the Robin Hoods of the time. She’s herded cows, sheep, horses and drunk cowboys… Oh! The stories she can tell!

I am the lucky one who gets to share the life of this beautiful lady every day. She is my grandmother: my Rock of Gibralter. Her steady, gentle kindness is a nice balance to my run-a-muck energy that goes zooming off in a thousand directions each morning as the sun comes up.

Grandma slept on my college couch when I stayed out all night and hugged me when I had a broken heart. She made me the only new clothes I had when I was a little girl and taught me how to sew when I was old enough. She believed in me when the rest of the world thought I was off my rocker and she’s never doubted I would come out of a funk.

Grandma Nona is the one who sneaks treats to the cats, dogs, pig and my little one. She is the one who giggled with onery delight at her 90th birthday when everyone had to draw eating utensils from a paper bag for dinner. (Yes, we ate with beaters and potato mashers, giant spatulas and tenderizing mallets). She is the one who can fix anything, give the most sound advice on the planet and make me pray that my genes are graced with just some of her joi de vivre.

For this Mother’s Day, I want my grandma to know that she is the most special lady in the universe. I want her to know that she is loved beyond love in my heart and that I thank her every moment for her undying love and patience that she so freely gives to me and the rest of the world.

Originally published on the first ContemporaryWesternDesign.com site May 2007

from the Archives, "Dancing in the Street"

2008-11-12T21:05:00.000-08:00

There is something about whipped cream on the end of the nose that makes one giggle, even if you are ninety one.

We all dressed up and went out to dinner at a local favorite called the Proud Cut Saloon. The copper topped bar, lodge pole pine tables and rodeo pictures everywhere create a fun ambiance. Of course, we had to sit in the back across from the kitchen because we had a minor with us. No worries here, the giggling began before we even sat down. We were dressed to the nines, surely everyone in the front thought that we had just come from some fancy event. It’s not often that you get a chance to get out of jeans and boots but it sure is fun to dress up, smell good and put on pretty things.

Dinner was full of the hearty entertainment that you get from a four year old and 91 year old at a table. I just couldn’t help myself when desert came with whip cream on the top. Thinking ahead, I managed to get it into my possession doling out spoonfuls of peanut butter pie around the table. There is a thing with whip cream in my house. Many times it ends up on someone, usually with a little girl chanting, “Food Fight”. What started out at a birthday picnic has turned into a Marx household tradition. Whipped cream is not meant just for eating.

So it goes that as the desert bowl emptied out, there was a mound of whip cream left and, ,I with the lucky spoon nabbed the end of the nose of that little girl across from me and the unsuspecting grandmother beside me. (Surely, I would never do that to her). Her giggles and those of the folks next to us made me think that you are never too young to be silly, even if for a moment. But the fun of the night didn’t end there.

As we walked to our car, reliving the good dinner and laughter, we heard strains of music wafting toward us from the porch of the Irma Hotel. All of us looked longingly at the empty sidewalk, but decided we should just go home. But in the car we couldn’t stand it and piled out, down the street in our dresses and heels to where the band played an old Johnny Cash song.

Much to the amusement of the crowd of local cowboys, we danced on the sidewalk. A little girl swaying from side to side, her eyes closed in her mother’s arms and a grandmother digging in her memory for the right rhythm for the two step. We didn’t care who was watching, we danced every song until the band ended their set.

Remember you are never too young or old for whipped cream or dancing in the street.

orignally published June 4, 2007 on the first Contemporary Western Design.com

from the Archives, "First Ride"

2008-11-12T21:02:00.001-08:00

Spring is the beginning: a rebirth, a fresh new start. It seems only fitting that I am launching this website as the earth turns from a gray and brown landscape to one rich in color and new life. Since entering western design 11 years ago, I’ve never been able to duplicate the joy in my professional life as I did when I was working directly with the talented artists whose hearts, hands and souls created pieces for our everyday lives. Not only did I learn a tremendous amount about life from being in their presence, but I was constantly inspired. So here I am again, on my own terms, doing what I absolutely love, building, writing, marketing: immersing myself into the world of western design. It has felt a lot like the first mountain bike ride of the season for me: being scared silly, while practically tasting the adrenaline that would shoot through my system as I powered up the first hill and made it upright through an unsuspecting mud puddle. The ride putting ContemporaryWestern Design.com into motion is comparable to putting tread to the new earth of the season, daring my body to push itself to euphoric exhaustion full well knowing the results are well worth any pain the universe dishes forth. I hope you will become a regular on the site perusing the newest items and chalking up your favorite hot picks of the week.

Twenty Years to Sink In

2008-06-24T20:34:00.000-07:00

He looked familiar. The voice triggered something in my memory. I had that nagging feeling that I knew him. It would haunt me until I figured it out.

Of all places, I was in a tackle shop stocking up on flies, flies I seem prone to lose too often in the creek. I should know the man that obviously knew his way around the store and was a regular customer.

As I wandered the store, a shovel was pilfering through my memory banks. I couldn’t shake that nagging feeling. I tried to ignore it. It was no use. Then out of the blue the lady behind the counter addressed him by his first name and suddenly I had it. He was my senior English teacher at Wind River High School.

Just a few months before, I was lamenting how I wished I knew where he was. I wanted to tell him thank you. He made me work hard in class. He challenged me. And sometimes, he downright confused me.

English in his class was not like any English class I had experienced before. The material he was teaching presented a dramatic departure from what I thought English was about: phonetic pronunciations and philosophy? Simple, complicated and sometimes elaborate sentence structures? What was love? Hate? Anger? Peace? When I was 18, none of it seemed terribly important to my future. Though I enjoyed the writing, I grew to enjoy the process of editing even more. Editing until the piece was skinny and as perfect as it could be. He taught me to write, then tear it down and write it again. He taught me so much that I still have the class notes in my desk drawer and when I am really stuck, I find my way to them.

As I started my college career, I tried out the sentence structures and methods of writing that I had practiced for a year, some professors liked it and others did not. I was confused. Later, I realized some of them were just sophisticated enough to appreciate the lessons I had been taught.

So on this day in the tackle shop, I couldn’t help myself. I’ve learned life is way too short. You must tell those who have made a difference in your life when you get a chance. The moment may never arise again. Looking back, I must have practically leapt at him, throwing my arms around his neck and saying, “Thank you, Mr. Norton.” I can’t help but think that I overwhelmed this very humble and quiet man with my profuse thanks. In reality, I have no way of truly expressing how instrumental he was in my life as I began to follow my passion for writing.

This is my second chance. I will approach it with more grace this time. Thank you, Mr. Norton, for demanding only the best from me. Thank you for pushing me and opening my mind for many things yet to come. Nearly twenty years later it is truly hitting home.

Lose the lid....

2008-01-21T20:01:00.000-08:00

The cashier was a pleasant young man who couldn’t have been more than 16. He was helpful and had given me a curious smile when I put my two purchases down at his register. The gentleman who had helped me retrieve a bottle of eye drops from behind a display case door in the little grocery store was equally as nice and had also given me a nice smile, in fact, every one did as I came through the door and found my way around the store.

It had been a disjointed day where juggling work and caretaking responsibilities had left me distracted and needed to stop at three different grocery stores by the time I got home to retrieve everything I needed. I hate to admit to this as it makes me seem senile in my young age, but with a four year old tugging on my sleeve and my cell phone ringing and me gently watching out for the friend I’d taken to the doctor, I wasn’t as organized as usual.

At the first grocery store, I ran across a smart little coffee kiosk. Though, I don’t drink coffee, the proprietor was gracious to make my favorite, a green tea latte. The day was very cold and snowy and a warm treat seemed appropriate. When it came it had a coffee bean wrapped in white chocolate neatly resting in the divot on top. Wondering if I really should leap that far into the world of caffeine I let it sit for a while as I made my way around the store, through several phone conversations and pit stops by my four year old. At last I determined that it wouldn’t hurt, I was lugging down a little in the late afternoon.

For a reason that may also explain my temporary senility, I was mildly surprised when I picked it up and the chocolate was melted to the bean on the bottom leaving a nice white puddle on the lid. If I had been a teenager witnessing the scene, I would have said, “well duh” which is exactly what I said to myself.

It was still a good half hour before I made it to the car and really had a chance to drink my tea. Then I was driving for 20 minutes before I realized I had forgotten two key items on my first stop. Quickly pulling into the little store that served a rural community on my way home, I found myself smiling broadly at the people inside as they seemed to be doing to me.

Jumping back in the car and stowing the items away, I felt an itch on my nose. As I reached up to rub it a hunk of white chocolate neatly fell away into my lap. I’m sure all those people in the store I’d just left were really very nice and right at the moment giggling at the silly girl with the chunk of white something on her nose.
I looked around my car and demanded, albeit, jokingly, why no one had told me that I was spouting white chocolate from the end of my freckled nose. I was indeed embarrassed and glad it wasn’t a place I frequented and quickly made a note to self. Get rid of the chocolate covered coffee bean right way or lose the lid on the tea.

Christmas Wish

2007-12-12T19:37:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite seasons of the year is upon us. I enjoy almost everything about Christmas; to me it means a change of pace, the excitement of decorating the tree, cutting pine boughs for the mantel, hanging the stockings and watching young and old light up on Christmas morning when there is a special surprise waiting for them. What I don’t enjoy about the season is the overt commercialism. It really struck home this year when I ran to Wal-Mart for a last minute fix for my little girls Halloween costume and they were putting out Christmas stuff?

This year my family has decided to give only presents that are handmade. It could be a poem, heartfelt letter, a painting, hand sewn Barbie doll clothes or anything created not purchased. We intend to put our energies and efforts into baking “good for you” cookies, doing good things for others and focusing on the best gift we possess: our love for each other.

We’ve also been stashing “the funny pages” as my grandmother calls them, from the Sunday paper. These colorful papers along with brown paper sacks are going to be our wrapping paper this year. When I was growing up, we never tore into our packages. We carefully untied the ribbon and used a pocketknife to cut the tape at the seams, folding the paper nicely and putting it into the paper box for next year. There was a time, when I was embarrassed about paper that had obviously been used before or wrapping a large package in several different papers so it looked like a patchwork quilt. Now I am much wiser and thoughtful. I understand the reason for re-using paper. It is expensive and wasteful. I read recently just how many million pounds of garbage wrapping paper adds up to each December. It was startling and sad.

My Christmas wish this year is to make a difference, even if it’s in my own little confines. About 6 years ago, a dear neighbor and friend, called me bright and early Christmas day and asked if I would go to the nursing home with her to sing Christmas Carols. Sure why not. I wasn’t spending the day with family. I should do something for someone. I didn’t know how much of an impression it would make on me. I’ve tried to put it into the mix for every Christmas morning since, whether Edith goes or not. It’s a beautiful way to start out a special day and I can only hope that the residents get as much joy out of if as I do.

So this Christmas, let the spirit of giving reign. Give back to the environment, your family and those around you. I promise, you will never feel better about Christmas!

Three of a Kind

2007-10-31T14:11:00.000-07:00

What usually constitutes a decent poker hand, means, in this case, three girls very closely related, but not sisters, who love to be together.

We are not sisters, but might as well be. We are double cousins. Double what? You say. Ok, let me explain. Our mother’s who are sisters, married brothers. We have almost the same genes and lots of similar idiosyncrasies with the joy of not being siblings.

Jonel and I are 2 months and 7 days a part, Jennifer and I are 3 years, 7 months and 9 days apart. I’ve never had a sister, but in reality I have two. Both of them bring a lot of joy to my life.

Jonel is the most talented music teacher I know. She works in a school in a low income Tucson neighborhood bringing orchestra to life for children who would probably never get the opportuntity. When offered the chance to take over a well-rounded established program, she turned it down to build a fledgling program in a struggling school system. As a graduate of the Boston Conservatory, she could go anywhere, but true to her gentle ways she has chosen to help where there is no glamour, but the potential for gratification is huge.

Jennifer is a doctor. One who isn’t afraid to buck the system. She is a medical doctor, but that doesn’t mean she has to be beholden by anyone. She wants to help people, she stretches the limits, works beyond modern medicine and uses good old common sense. “Eat Bacon?!” She asks incredulously, “It’s my favorite food.” You see, she is a foodie, addicted to anything that might tempt the palate. She is also a terrific athlete, running marathons at regular intervals. She, too, is a humanitarian. She spent a rotation in Africa helping the less fortunate. And continues to look for other opportunities to give.

I remember as children we played on the ranch, where I was queen because I was a cowgirl and unafraid. And we played in the cities in which they lived. Once, we talked our Grandmother into taking us to a rated ‘R’ movie when we were in our pre-teens. She was horrified as she sat next to us and we covered our eyes for the love scene.

The three of us can go for months sometimes without communicating and then pick up right where we left off.

I am a very lucky person. Three of a kind is a good hand to hold. Especially if on either side the cards are people you love.