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New tricks for old dogs (or horses?)

/ Gin Getz / 6 Comments

Who says you can’t teach an old dog new tricks?

How about an old horse?

How about an old person?

I’ll start with the horse.

Remember Norman the New Guy?  He came to us at age five, untrained, completely green and a backyard pet.  Oh no, we were warned, he’ll be spoiled, they said.  Fine, I replied, I’ll take him.  And I ended up with a horse who loves people, and was willing to listen and work with me. Within three weeks, Norman was reasonably proficient at pulling, driving, packing and riding.  After his first summer working with us, he moved approximately ten ton dirt, and became possibly the highest paid horse in Hinsdale County.  Right on.

Canella was our first born here at the Ranch.  That was seven years ago.  When she was two weeks old, she got on the wrong side of the fence, and a playful gelding ran her back through.  Only she didn’t quite make it, and the gangly little foal found herself terribly tangled.  No serious cuts or swelling, just a little limp ensued.

But the limp lasted, and if anything, got worse.  Her front leg seemed to grow in ever so slightly cock-eyed.  Not really enough for most folks to notice, but we did.

For years, I kept the front feet trimmed myself, trying to tilt her leg back in.  I ground trained her, but never let her carry a load.  My hope was that she’d straighten up, or at least strengthen up where a little swing to her step would not cause her pain, discomfort or imbalance.

She’ll never be anything, they told me, if you can’t get her going by two or three.  Why not, I wondered? What’s wrong with starting an older horse?

After years of having her hang over the fence and sadly watch us leave for the high country without her, just the other day, I decided to take her for her first test ride.  Seven years of handling paid off.  Up and down the mountain she carried me, with the lightest of touch of the lead rope looped about her neck, no need for a bit, never breaking gate, spooking or misbehaving, sticking to the trail, crossing creeks and stepping high over fallen trees.  Where was the thrill of the first ride?  You have to start ‘em young, I was told, or they’ll be spoiled and won’t listen.  Oh, really now?  Well, I’d say the bucking bronc or indolent child was long gone from her disposition, and I am left now with a willing and eager partner. Interesting.

If it works for you and is respectful for the horse, why not give it a try?

But who am I to say.  I’m “just” an outfitter.  No, now not even.  A ditch digger.  Someone who relies on horses for transporting our selves and our gear deep into the Wilderness, and once there, moving dirt.  Nothing fancy.  But I am out there working with my horses, making a modest living with them, as dependent upon them as they are of me.

No, I don’t have the fancy gear or dress just right.  My jeans are never pressed and usually dirty.   I don’t have a particulary title or style or stick to a book.  I don’t follow one method or trainer like a religon or guru, though I can say I should be able to learn something from everyone if I keep an open mind.  Sometimes, that something is what not to do.  I can tell you I don’t like old school methods and am open to the new.  You won’t convince me that force and fight are the answer.

Always more to learn. At any age.  Me and the horse.

This much I have learned, both from the horse, and those that I’ve seen working and playing with them.

He who speaks the most probably knows the least.

A horse has no words, but plenty to say if you’re willing to listen.

Thus when it comes to horses, I am learning (trying?) to keep my mouth shut, and just do what works for me.

How quick we are to judge, and how foolish we are if unable to learn something from everyone (and every horse) we meet.

And finally, the most important, get on and enjoy the ride. That’s what it’s all about, I guess.  At least for me.

Well, really, what I wanted to share with you was about this old dog:  my husband, Bob.   But I’ll save that for another day.  Have a good one.  I’m off!

 

photo taken by Forrest.

Burning Bridges

/ Gin Getz / 7 Comments

Scraps of wood cut from old planks that once spanned the Rio Grande, reawakened as borders to raised beds for a garden that barely produced.

This wood, heavy and dark and four inches thick smelling of age and time and stories I’ll never know, salvaged timbers to the old Little Squaw bridge, crossing the river almost ten miles below us as the water flows, the dirt road goes.  One more life stirring, one more use, burning in my woodstove, relieving the morning chill, mesmerizing me with the crackle and hiss of its final song as the flames in the stove wave like branches in the spring wind.

Burning bridges.

Would you believe so literally?

What’s next, she asked and awaited a response to arrive in the twisting air?

Blow, wind, blow.

Share with me your secrets; allow me to share my passion.

Spread my wings, force me to take flight, lift me higher and higher again.

In a wild spiral.

My once tamed hair flying free in the wind.

My once calmed heart stirring where we thought we could keep it calm.

I cannot hold back the hoot and holler as I run down to the Rio Grande and lose my voice in the fierce flow of the last of her roaring spring waters.

 

 

Change comes in odd ways.  Often not as we expect.  Taking on an appearance so different than that which we were looking for.

The dog sits on the deck watching deer at his horse’s salt lick.

The horses settle into the routine, coming to my call, standing patiently through grooming, saddling and then keeping an open mind to the surprise of where I will lead them to today.

Summertime neighbors, old replaced by new, a changing of the guard and new life to a seasonal community, an excitement by the freshness of faces, ideas, beautiful new stories spread out like picnic blankets on a sunny day.

Evening light casting shadows of the Blue Spruce like daggers across the open flats.  The chartreuse wash of newly emerging Aspen leaves.  Freezing temperatures in the morning lace the sides of the creek with bouquets of frozen water that bloom only until eight a.m.

My son, evolving to his own direction and destination and forming his world like a sculptor. More often than not staring at the ball of clay before him and wishing it might portend the future more like a crystal ball. My husband, embracing the “encore career” and the mining community after thirty years of running his own business and, more often than not, doing it all himself.

Myself, awaiting a change I know will come, yet have no idea what to look for. I open my mouth and wait for the song to begin but the words do not come.

Yet.

I long and listen for a song I do not hear but somehow know the tune.  It is not one I have heard before.

As wild as the wind.

Nothing stays the same.

So, go ahead, burn those bridges.  Find a new use for old timbers.  And get to work spanning the river with a new one.

The farce of the pioneer woman

/ Gin Getz / 3 Comments

I fancy myself to be a bit of a pioneer, living where no one has lived before, baking bread to feed my family from the old wood cook stove, using hand tools to finish my house built from logs my husband felled, and a horse and slip to earn my wages.

Sounds so romantic.

Wake up!

Think of the life for the true pioneer, and then tell me, go ahead, what I fool I am to consider myself as such.  Sure, I have an outhouse, and have dug the pits by hand.  But I also have a flushing toilet, running water and a hot water heater.  I can wash my hands and dishes in the kitchen sink, drive a truck to a health clinic in just over an hour, and while I’m in town, pick up the groceries I’m lacking to feed my family so our meals are not bland, simple and the same every day.  I have internet! Yes, in winter, we have to snowmobile or snowshoe that first 6 ½ miles out of the ranch, but does that make me a pioneer?  Perhaps in this modern world alone, where we’re spoiled and have too much, and still complain because the price of fuel to fill our truck is more than we’d like to pay.

I once was told the average age of the true pioneer woman was forty.  At forty-five, the age I am now, I would have been long overdue.

Pioneer woman?  We need another term.  We should care not to disgrace the women who truly struggled, and not pretend we come close to their hard work and hardships.

Yes, today my body is sore.  It’s a physical life I live. By choice. That’s the difference.  I am not here because I have no other place to be.  I am here, doing what I do because I want to be here, because I love the mountain, my work, my life.  And if I get tired, I can rest, and life will go on, my little world will not fall apart at the seams or get blown over with dust in the next storm.

We sit on the old steps of a cabin we are planning to rip out and replace.  I lean back against my son’s bony knees and he reaches up to rub my shoulders.

Ever felt anything so tough, I ask him? He laughs for he knows it’s my choice to ride the horses and hike the mountains on my time off.  I can come home and rest, sit on the porch at sunset with a glass of wine… and smile as I reflect upon my “pioneer lifestyle.”

I haven’t milked a cow in ten years.

Returning from my morning rounds (which do not include milking a cow) I glance across the fence at the property that was once part of the old homestead , but has been divided for, among other excuses, a comfortable place to retire.  Retirement, summer home, vacation lifestyle. Affording us all more free time and the option to pick and choose our country skills.  Have fun playing part!  The farce and folly of it all.  Hobby logging with a skid steer which has become the new man-toy, as the team of mules is turned out for yet another season to be no more than fattening pets; and riding a lawn mower, back and forth and back again, chemigating the pasture in probable hopes of becoming dandelion-free and resembling a slick suburban lawn, while the pups run alongside, romping in the wake of the sprayer.

Pioneer in spirit alone.  I claim to be closer, but who am I fooling? Living where no one lived before, building our own home, scratching out a living on the land… I read yet another story of one who left the “stresses” of the city for the “simple life” of the country, bought the little ranchette complete with old cow.  Their life does not depend on it.  Theirs is no more than a petting zoo lifestyle.  Is it wrong?  Of course not.  But dare we call ourselves pioneers as we sit back in the heat of the afternoon under the shade of the veranda and sip sweet tea as the stock rests idyllic beneath the old oak tree?

Altitude Sickness

/ Gin Getz / 3 Comments

Seventeen degrees when I woke up to a little bit of light and finally silent wind chimes at five a.m.  All those starts my husband brought me home from the nursery over two hours away, which I tenderly planted in the safe new location of the raised beds and covered with a double layer of plastic sheeting for added protection, just in case. Dead. All that promise of a juicy ripe homegrown tomato at ten thousand feet. Gone. Turned to a mushy dark sick liquid green.

I wanted to cry. Really.  May seem silly to be so upset over the death of plants, but I think it was the last straw. First it was a bad morning.  The outhouse down at the Little Cabin blew over in these brazen winds, the power tripped causing us to fire up the generator for the first time since last fall burning that dreaded fossil fuel I do my best to conserve, and there was a dead ground squirrel in the have-a-heart traps that was set to capture the danged pack rat that’s been chewing his way into our storage cabin.

Yet it was the plants, my dearly tended, fragile plants.  That was the hardest.  They represented more.  Hope.  Life, when so many friends were dealing with death.  This week, one friend lost her dog while helping her sister through the diagnosis of cancer, one lost their dear old mare, and another lost her mother.  I was going to grow life.  In the form of juicy ripe tomatoes.

A nasty blow. Enough to bring tears to my eyes.  But not enough to compare with the losses my friends are bearing.  I will sweet talk my husband into dropping another hundred bucks next time he’s in the valley, and I will replant.  Life replaced, as simple as that.  And maybe I’ll get that tomato this summer after all.

I think of my friends dealing with their losses, and I know it is not fair.  Life isn’t.  In fact, sometimes it really sucks.  And then it gets better.  Just like that.  Though maybe it takes a while.  Hours, days, weeks, maybe even years. It’s crazy, isn’t it?  This rollercoaster ride with all the ups and downs.  We heal, we forget or forgive or learn to cope, and still find the guts to buy another ticket and go for another ride.

But for now, I’m still upset.  Walking around all morning in a funk, on the verge of tears.  I let my boys know this is not OK. Such emotional creatures we are.  So affected by the simple things.  If we let it get to us, and I usually do.

So while the rest of the family gathered together to whoop it up for the holiday and partake in the traditional barbeque, I chose to be alone with my dog.  I needed to get high.

Thirteen thousand feet high.

Though my intention was merely twelve. That extra thousand feet was bonus points.  That’s where the addiction part comes in. That, my friend, is altitude sickness.  Not because at that altitude I felt queasy in my head and stomach, though that has happened before. But because somewhere in my heart and soul there was this fluttering.  This crazy, driving, lustful urge that blinds reason and tells you to keep going, like a drug you should keep taking.  Seeing nothing but one foot in front of the other, a slow ascend, and focusing on the sound of my own labored breathing.  That which controls you, guides you, forces you onward beyond reason.  All for the five minutes of sitting on top of the mountain in the blaring winds and blinding light and biting temperatures, sucking in thin air and looking around 360 degrees in absolute awe, next to Gunnar Guy, my never questioning why on earth we spend all this time trudging to the top only to turn around and scramble back down faithful side kick of a dog.

The sickness of addiction.  Mesmerized and seduced by the altitude and elements. For I didn’t mean to go so far.  But I’m glad I did.

 

Horse matters

/ Gin Getz / 14 Comments

For Julia.

Opening a can of worms, or a barn of horses.  Let the fences fling open and the horses fly free. Where do I begin, such a huge and important part of my life… Will only skim the surface, like brushing off the last of the winter’s coat to reveal the shiny spring hair hiding beneath.  But it’s still no more than the shell.  What matters most is deep inside.

Horses.

I wasn’t raised with them, didn’t have the opportunity to ride as a kid, and wasn’t lucky enough to have my own backyard pony.  This is not a sob story, just a fact of life. It didn’t matter to me then.  You don’t desire what you don’t know exists.  I didn’t know a horse back then, let alone anyone who had one.  We didn’t watch Westerns, and the mountains in which I now ride were very far away.

I think this is an important point to note.  Most horse people I know talk about their childhood longings.  And then, more often than not, I hear of their adult distance.  The horse, who once held an important place in their life, has become no more than a fond memory.

I’ve done things backwards.  The horse came into my life later and expanded its importance, value and attachment.

The horse became my work.

Something I believe in, for the horse is a creature bred to work, not just sit around and look pretty, which I will admit they manage to do quite well.  But they, like us, have the inner spirit that thrives with duty, responsibility, accomplishment, and a job to do.  Tell me, who has a better life?  The person with a point and purpose to every day, or the one sitting idle watching the world go by?  Yes, this may be a matter of opinion, with my working class mentality…

So giving up the title of “outfitter” was an odd evolution in my journey with horses.  Yet as that part of our business began to fade with the changing demographics and shrinking horse industry, lo and behold, our opportunity of taking on “the ditch job” was a blessing.  A prayer answered.  Careful what you ask for.  I want to keep working with my horses. I’m not ready to become a hobby horseperson.  No offence to those who are, but it’s something that’s mattered to me.  Part of my identity.  I take my horses, horsemanship, and learning and growing as a horseperson quite seriously. I don’t intend to be the horseperson tomorrow that I was yesterday.  Today is for experiencing, learning, growing.

My relationship with my horses is thus changing, as is my role of mother, wife, sister, daughter, friend and neighbor.  Nothing stays the same.  Our relationship has transformed, and continues to do so.  The ignorance of fun, beauty, simply sitting on the horse and enjoying the ride has been replaced with the deep bond of time, work, experience, shared trauma.

I have grown beyond looking for a horse to make me look good, and am now enjoying learning to make a horse look good.  It’s not about me, it’s about the horse.  I look at the few horse people I respect and admire and thrive to learn from them.  Watch how they sit on the horse, move with him or her, communicate and become one.  The fluid motion, subtle movement.  You notice the horse.  The rider is no more than a pure and positive passenger, perhaps subtly directing the movement, but not where the observer can note.  Yet for those who pay attention, the rider is often the center of attention in the deal, and more often than not, because he or she looks so awkward and out of place upon their back.  Those riders still must chose the horses that make them look better, not learn more. Me, I’m still somewhere in between.

The days of just getting on and enjoying the ride are behind, though there will always be moments of that bliss.  Replaced with understanding, analyzing, evolving.  It’s gone deeper and once you go that deep, the shallow sitting on the horses back is left far behind.

And then there are the cold hard facts.  There is so much more to horsemanship than riding.  That’s the little fancy candy flower on the icing on the cake.  The rest is the feeding, cleaning, mucking, brushing, vetting, trimming, shoeing, training, fencing, transporting, worrying, day to day care and paying the bills for all of this to happen.   Compare this to the amount of time, money, planning, preparing, practicing, etc. that goes into making a movie, and all you do is pay ten bucks and see it all in two hours.

I’m sorry, my friends, I know most of you are not horse people, don’t know much about horses, and may not even care.  I share this on the chance that you understand what the horse means to me, and what in turn such a beautiful, vulnerable, powerful beast might in turn mean to you.

My focus and attention and time returns now to my horses.  This is the time of year.  We are riding most days, getting the horses and myself in shape, clearing trails, maintaining routes we are passing on… and finding new ones.

I must leave you now.  Time to slip on the muck boots and head out to feed.

Slide Lake in Spring

/ Gin Getz / 6 Comments

Wolves.  Wild horses.  Water.

Wouldn’t you say the three most controversial and divisive topics in the west?

I can see both sides on the first two topics and am unable to choose sides.  I can see through the power and passion of emotion ruling both segments to a middle ground where the two should but just won’t meet, won’t budge, won’t give, fingers pointed and backs turned and nothing positive is resolved. That’s where we need to focus.  On the compromise. I guess that’s usually how things end up getting resolved.  But in the meanwhile, it does take both borders to define the middle ground.  Change often requires conflict to come about.

And then there is water.  The first essential to life. The west was built with liquid gold, and our future is pending upon it.  I see no controversy in the obvious and inevitable. What am I missing here, because somehow, we’re not agreeing that there is a problem?  Man based, nature based, call it what you will.  While some places are getting flooded out, pummeled with regular deluges, and learning that natural disasters are a usual occurrence, the Southwest is drying up.  Yes, even in the high mountains. Even in my back yard.

Yesterday Forrest and I hiked up West Lost Trail to Slide Lake.  Elevation 11,400.   We wore shorts and t-shirts.  There was green grass, wild flowers and the dog swam in the waters while the squeals of the pika and marmot echoed on the hard face of the rocks surrounding us.  And everywhere we looked the one rich green slopes were striped with the red and brown of dead trees defining draws and shoots as the beetle kill seemed to be pouring from the top down.  If you don’t get this picture, figure this out.  11,400 feet elevation should just be melting out in May.

Data from the NRCS as of May 18th show the Upper Rio Grande Basin snowpack level, which was reading at 52% of average, dropped to 14% with the peak a full month ahead of average. Current reports from the Snotel at Beartown read the water equivalent of our snowpack to be at 1% of average.

These are not opinions.  There is no emotion here.  These are simply stated facts, real and raw.  Do you see a problem? So now the question is raised.  What are you going to do about it?  What am I going to do?

Maybe it’s just this year, we say.  Maybe it’s just a coincidence. Maybe we don’t have a do a thing.

Eclipse

/ Gin Getz / 13 Comments

We sit around the campfire awaiting the break in the heavy clouds that might allow us a glimpse of the darkening sun, a chance to see this eclipse before the sun settles behind the mountain to our west.

You’ve got to have a sense of humor.  How else can we make it through this thing called life?  And for those of us lacking the ability to crack jokes, may we be lucky enough to have a husband and son willing and able to share theirs freely.  A balancing act.  What we don’t have ourselves, we learn to enjoy from others.

They’ve got their welding helmets on, worn as comfortably as ball caps, only they look more like Tin Men or something sort of medieval and evil. They are ready to look at the blinding sun, if it were bold enough to bust through the clouds.  They are confident it will happen. There are two small holes in the cloud covered sky that give us hope.  Pin pricks perhaps into the view of the great abyss.  But sometimes, that’s all it takes.  You gotta have hope.  You gotta believe it’s possible.  You gotta be ready, just in case.  And in the mean while, you might as well have some fun, because what you’re waiting for may never come, but the rest of life isn’t too bad either.

Lo and behold.  Moments before the sun drops behind the mountain for the evening, one of those pin prick openings in the cloud cover widens, opens just enough to reveal the sun with a big dark circle missing from its fiery face.

And then it drops, the clouds continue to open, the sky clears and the evening around the campfire becomes just another beautiful night in paradise.

An ugly picture in a beautiful world

/ Gin Getz / 25 Comments

I think when you come down to it, truth is, everyone wants to be loved.

Though at some time, with some people, we must face the facts that attempts for being loved, let alone being accepted, are futile.

Oh sure, I’d love to be like those that claim they do not care.  Seemingly untroubled by who calls them what, the stories that have been told, or the judgments made.  Maybe such people really do exist.  I am not one of them.

So it was with that hope in mind, that of simply being loved, and then reduced to liked, and then reduced to accepted… by my in-laws, that I write today.

Oh, not all of them.  In fact, only a few.  There are a lot of them around here in the summer.  Some have been fine.  Some have been great. But that very unpleasant, difficult few have made a big impression.  Not a pretty one, either.

Why?  Go figure.  We’ve learned we’ll never really know. I’ve heard all kinds of theories.  The typical, “She must be a hussy.”  Or thinking I was no more than the hired help.  Or that I married Bob for his money (no offense, sweetheart, but I can hear the chuckles).  Or fear.  Fear of me taking their little boy away.  Fear of losing control.  Fear of change.

For their world was perfect before I came.  Right.  Wrong.  Frighteningly so.  But I don’t know if anyone every spoke about it, you know, as in “admitted it” before I was here to open up the closet and let the skeletons spill out.  Hush-hush, brush it under the carpet, don’t tell a sole, and just pretend we get along.  Good lord, but you HATE each other!  Who are you fooling?

An ugly picture in a beautiful world.

When you put the pieces of the puzzle together, there before you is one ugly picture.  But it’s just one, spread out on my kitchen table, a twisted mix of facts and lies, and I know I have the ability to brush it off, toss it away, clean the slate and begin my day, my life, in a beautiful way. Even here.

Pieces of the puzzle.  It’s a long story.  I’ll probably only get to a part of it today.  Bear with me as this might not be the lovely lighter side of life you like to listen to.  But it’s real and raw and revealing.  And I suppose there is something to be said for that.  Like letting it all hang out so you can lighten your load and learn to laugh again.

And I’m gonna have the last laugh after all.  Because although legend has it when we were married my husband’s brother and mother vowed to chase me off in five years, I’ve spent the last four chuckling, just knowing my presence alone causes them misery.  And now, with our return, with our commitment to the land, it’s easy to see how  we’ll still be here, enjoying a new group of neighbors, long after they leave.  And yes, I confess, I do I take pleasure in that.

So where do I begin?

An ugly picture.

Most of the details I chose to forget.  There were many.  Ugly, ugly images.  Memories more like nightmares.  I learned to say this family is not mine.  No family is perfect, I know, but this was a bit much.

So why am I rehashing all this crap?  Because I can, the brother used to say.  He never gave us a better reason for treating us as he did. So maybe just this time, I’ll say the same.  Because I can.  And because part of healing is forgiving.  Letting go. And I’m still holding on.  I’m still hurt.  Having people hate you, hate everything you do or did or built or made, finding fault in you and your life and your dreams and your hard work hurts.  Period.  The scars are deep.  But they are healing.

This story will help clarify the picture for me, ugly as it may be.  Only then can I brush it aside… and laugh.

I might add that this post is not endorsed by my husband, and may be the first one which he will read and won’t say, “It’s nice.”  I guarantee.  This will make him cringe.  Why stir the waters, he will ask me?  I will tell him that the mud is thick and deep, and taints the clear waters that calmly lies on top.  It doesn’t go away on its own.  At some point we must drain the pond and begin anew. Let sleeping dogs lie, he’ll tell me.  But my dog sleeps restlessly, and wakes up barking.

Life isn’t always peaches and cream.   Maybe it’s because of the bitter apple and sour milk that fine wine seems so sweet.  It’s a package deal.  The good and bad.  An ugly picture in a beautiful world.  So, I’ll tell my story finally.  Forget the silence of the lambs.  It due time I climb to the top of the mountain and let loose my feral wail.

It isn’t going to make me any friends.  But truth is, it’s already cost me plenty.  That was their intention. Stories from my mother- and brother-in-law. I’m better off not knowing the half of them.

I would like to claim innocence but that would not be fair.  I could have/should have seen the signs, and probably did, but love is blind.  The sweet little old lady who had already had about twenty five years perfecting the act.   Oh, she could tell a story so well!  A historian, she called herself.  Though I cringe to think of how many stories were told for the sheer impact and effect on intrigued tourists.  I too was enamored by her once, and so looked forward to having her… love me.

Silly me.

Why she couldn’t run me off like she succeeded in doing for others before me, I do not know.  But for that I am grateful.  Though the battle to win and keep her son left deep scars within me.  They are worth it.  He is worth it.

An ugly picture.  You built your own hell.  Alas, it’s fading.  It’s lost its control.  The rein of critiques and criticism from the plastic throne is withering away.  The powers she appointed to replace her are not even worthy of mention.

There is more, so much more.  I need not remember it all.  I need to learn to let go.  For myself, my son, my husband.  For them, I push open the shutters and pull up the shade and let go of the past and let new light flood into the room.

As one friend writes, “The old me would have…”  But the new one won’t put up with crap.  OK, well, so maybe I never did.

So what is the solution?  Learning to let go.  Learning not to care.  Learning not to be affected by the words and actions and stories spread by others.  Well, one thing is for sure. I’ll never run for public office.  I’ll never be a politician.  For I never will care enough about what others think of me to act falsely or to put up with injustice and sit around silently. And still, I find I care too much.

So, where does that leave me?  I guess exactly where I am.

We have not spoken in years.  A big fence divides us, and I have learned no fence is big enough to hold back hatred.  I’ve stopped listening to them, to their stories, though I still hear them from time to time.  I think only a few still listen, though only a few ever did. They still spend their idle time here, coming and going in the summer.  Just more fair weather tourists who like to think about how many years they have been coming here, as if that enables one a greater hierarchical ranking.

And I will watch them leave, and breathe again.

And in the meanwhile, I will learn to accept that not everyone is going to love you. Some, in fact, will hate you.  Not because of who you are or what you’ve done, but because of themselves.  Let them keep their misery.  They build it well.  Some people choose to paint their own ugly pictures, then spend a lifetime looking at that, rather than the beautiful view before them.

I don’t want to be that person.  I want to see that beautiful view, be out in it, be a part of it, and should I lift my paintbrush to add to the picture before me, may I only craft it to be a more beautiful one.

If ever that were possible in such a picture perfect world.

Enwrapped by vibration

/ Gin Getz / 3 Comments

Lightning on the other side of the Divide where the clouds are steel grey.  A blinding bolt in the dark sky. A mirror image remains for a moment even through closed lids. Holding still, I wait and count and listen for the inevitable thunder.  Further away than I would have guessed.

The sound reverberates in a broad booming circle about us, bounding from the hard face of the mountains all around as we stand there in the center, protected in our little fenced yard, holding our spade and hoe. Waiting, awaiting, the certain sound and stirring.

Enwrapped by vibration.

The rain won’t reach us today.  I would like to smell the sweetness on warm soil and have the lettuce seeds and newly transplanted rhubarb and bunching onion softly sprinkled. But I can tell. The heavy clouds will loop around and loosen their load elsewhere, always elsewhere it seems. Except for when it’s here, and then it seems we are in the storm forever, forgetting what before and after sunshine feel like when the cold of mountain hail and rain surround us.

Not quite the banana belt. It was twenty five degrees this morning.  We’re still a month away before morning temps might remain above freezing.  And then, even then, I’d be a fool to count on it.

Quite contrary.

How does your garden grow?

Talk about an uphill battle, but I’m going to do it again this year. I’m going to try.  Lettuce and chard and kale, potatoes, onions and herbs.  Seeds spread out on my kitchen table of what I used to plant for spring crops when I gardened in California, here will grow in summer.  If I’m lucky.

And this year I’m cheating.  My husband brought me home starts from the greenhouse.  Tomatoes, peppers and flowers.  Geraniums in the boldest reds, so many shades, shocking and vibrant and really quite sexy.   Just ask the hummingbird who already found his way through the open sliding glass door to get closer to the brilliant blossoms.  Silly little birds.  Still seem so oddly out of place in the high country, yet manage just fine, even without the sickly amount of sugar so many humans think they “need.”

The chance of rain passes us by.  The dark clouds dissipate, or hide on the other side of the Divide, which is possible, for I would not see them for days if they chose to remain there.  And in the evening as the clear sky darkens for the day, the dog and I walk from the yard back towards home, smoke from the wood stove slowly waving like a happy dog tail as the temperature has already dropped to the mid thirties.

The smell of burning cedar.  Scraps of the posts pulled up, rearranged, fencing removed and replaced, because nothing stays the same, and we always find better ways. Even better places for the garden, now tucked in closer to the cabin, a little more protection from the extreme elements of the mountain.

We stop to listen, just the dog and me. There is a snipe’s flickering mating call to one side of us, and the bellow of geese on the other.  I imagine them there, perhaps no more than a pair, following the black ribbon of the river up to higher grounds until they settle in to the concealing darkness, wait out the night, and celebrate the first of light on the mountain in the morning with broad wings and joyous voices taking flight above the now silver flow of our Mighty Rio Grande.

What matters most

/ Gin Getz / 6 Comments

This is personal.  I should be more inclusive, more open, universal, involving.  After all, this is a blog.  A conversation with the public.  And here I am today unable to see beyond my little world, my mountain, my family.  Unable to find words or stories that might incorporate you.  Except that I think perhaps you might understand this.  In one way or another.   Your own way, I shall hope.

So today, I’ll use you as my sounding board. Feel free to bounce back.  Sharing thoughts I’m only starting to clarify.  Not the most profound perhaps, but stuff that matters most to me.

It’s about mothering.

No surprise that’s on my mind as yesterday was Mother’s Day.  A “Hallmark Holiday” my own mother used to call it.  But I think this one is more. I think it’s an excuse to remember how important the “job” of mothering is, or at least, can be.  A position that lasts “until death do us part” and beyond, for no good mother forgets or lets go of a child lost before her. Likewise does a child of any age not recover from the loss of good mother.  An irreplaceable void remains.

Mothering.  A position that goes without proper recognition, title or salary, but without which the world would fall apart at the seams.

And then again, I’ve met mothers not worthy of the title.  But I’m not going there today.

Mothering has meant the world to me.  To be a mother.  Nothing has formed me, transformed me, more.  And then last year when I first lost the daily point and purpose, the focus, title and self definition, when my son went off to college, I was lost.  But I learned that a grown son is still a son, and a mother (a good one) will always be there with love, concern, support, care. To nurture by nature.  Relationships, like everything else in life, change.  You figure it out if you try.

And ours has changed.  At 45, I am not the nurturing fresh young mother with filling breasts at the sound of a baby’s cry (perhaps an image only a nursing mother can relate to). I am closer to the age of a grandmother. I am somewhere in between.  I am enjoying the adult son.  Our team has easily evolved into the new classification of three adults in one home.  I’ve tried to treat him as such for a few years now, awaiting his maturity to fill the position, balanced with my poking and prodding (I prefer to call it “encouragement”).  Now I try to reduce the latter.  I have to learn.  It is hard.  I worry.  I get protective.  And still, I must step back and allow.  That’s the big part of parenting that’s not so easy, but so very, very important.  Finding the balance between holding back (holding one’s tongue!) and encouragement, compliment, and support of one another as any positive adult relationship should.  Helping each other be the best we each can be.

Has it been hard to watch him grow and go?  No!  Nothing could please me more, for I take such pride in his success.  I am not sure how to describe this.  It is not a personal pride of, “Oh look at how well he’s doing.  Dang, I must have done a great job as a mother!”  No.  It’s so different.  Rather it is quiet as I step back and observe, and swell with such incomparable adoration of watching the one you love more than your life learn to make the most of his own.

And where does that leave me as a mother of a grown son?  Learning to redefine myself.  Am I no longer a mother?  Perhaps not in the day to day, the chores and duties, the ball and chain and lack of sleep and abundant lectures.  Then what?  I am not sure yet.  It is changing as I write, with he nearby, writing on his own, no longer needing my prodding, direction, encouragement… Not needing?  Perhaps learning himself to do without.

This one is deep.  I could ramble on forever as I figure this out.  It is fascinating to me.  But by the time I figure it out, chances are, the relationship, the players, will be changing once again.  And yes, once again, I do have work to do, duties besides mothering (or just thinking about it) are calling… so…

So this one is personal.  Please allow this of me.  I always wish to try to include you, my reader, but perhaps this one just is about me and mine.  And then again, perhaps it is more than that.  For perhaps you too know what it is like for a relationship to evolve, revolve, turn about, and end up exactly where it should be, which isn’t always where we expect it to be, but hopefully is someplace even better…