family life

Yesterday.

/ Gin Getz / 9 Comments

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melting rio grande

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Yesterday.

The river begins to open.

The release of the season starts.

Our frozen white highway over which we dragged nearly ninety logs bares elusive glimpses into the dark face of the Rio.

She laughs loudly now beneath our feet.

Her waters rise, ice thins, snow loses its strength. And we stand upon her remaining hard surface and what else can we do but hope she’ll hold?

We light the last of the slash piles upon the ice and listen.  Open water beneath the flame.  Floating fire.

Our tools are gathered, brought back to this side of the river.  If the warm weather continues with daytime temperatures climbing steady into the 40s and 50s every afternoon as they have been, the Rio will no longer be passable.  At least, not on her surface and I’m not big on swimming up here.

The timing is just right.  Our work across river is done.

We’ve harvested what we need to build our home and shop.  Should we need more for the barn, well, it’s safe to say there will be a new round of dead trees to harvest next year.

So now, the work on this side begins.

This is progress. We are pleased.  Still there is a little bit of sadness too, for we have loved our time together by the river, silent as she had been, knowing she is there with us in the long blue shadows and heavy hoar frost and steaming breath and laughter and bloody noses and fat lips which were our only injuries and many a hot dog roasted over our slash piles over what in summer would be the middle of the river and our intimate involvement with our dying trees.

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logs our side of the river

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An update on the birth of the book.

Thanks to so many for so much.  For your support, encouragement and kindness.

For those who have been waiting, it is my understanding that the Kindle version will be available on Amazon later today.

For all those that did write and leave reviews, I can not thank you enough.

To so many, I send such sincere thanks, love and gratitude.

So, yeah… everything is going great… you’d think I’d be just floating on cloud nine with the wonderful reception and reviews that the launch of the book brought us.

But I’m not.

They warn you to expect bad review. It’s going to happen. Not everyone is going to like what you write.  Some folks in particular will really not like it because they don’t like you, or they don’t like the fact that you did it and they did not or whatever goes through someone’s mind to justify saying mean things.

But what about no response at all?  Brings back memories of all those years sending out my manuscript.  I was lucky to get the rejection letter.

So yes, to hear from those who enjoy my writing… that means a lot.

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You know what they say is true:  If you dare to put yourself out there, you better be prepared to be burned.  Even if what burns is hearing nothing at all.

That’s the downside.  And it’s down.  It’s the pits, and it hurts.  Some folks manage to bounce it all off their hard shell.  Not me.  It gets me.  I’m softer than I care to admit.

Don’t be so sensitive, some say.  Be stronger. Care less.

If I followed that advice, my writing would not be what it is, would it?

And for better or worse, I would not be either.

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leaf in snow

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Those who have been through this before, the big first book deal, compare the process to giving birth, with a longer gestation, (in my case, would you believe, five years in the making?) and a little less physical pain.  That’s not too far off, having been through childbirth too.  Hey, Mom and Dad, you were there when I did that. Remember all my screaming and cussing?  Guess what – I did the same over these past five years and then some “birthing” my first book.  My one hope is that each subsequent book will be a little easier. Dang, I hope so.

Some even say if you knew back then how hard it would be, I bet you wouldn’t have done it.

But for those of us who do write, I think we can’t not write.  I am incomplete with out. Be it my gift or the part of my private self I can share.

It’s not just words. It’s a part of me.

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leaf in spring snow

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And at these times of introspection, we’re forced to ask ourselves this questions:

Who do I write for?

Family?

No.

My brothers both forgot. The lack of support (even acknowledgement) from most of my husband’s family on this accomplishment should not have surprised me but still did.

Thank goodness for good friends and new readers.  And a few wonderful surprises along the way, including some close family and distant friends.

Who do I write for?

Not for myself, for although that is the advice of some successful writers, it is not what I care to do.

I guess I write for you.   For the few still here with me reading whilst the rest have run off to other things, pressing issues, important matters, and something shiny and new.

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ute creek trail head

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Confessions of a mountain mama

/ Gin Getz / 4 Comments

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our mountain

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So yes, travel… But first, life.  The big picture.

Don’t forget what matters most, and what I’m all about.  I’m not asking you, though if you know, please tell me. I just have to remind myself. Or trying to figure it out in the first place. Because this travel thing sure takes a lot of work, and time, and money, and we’re not even there yet.  Remember, we scratch out a living providing vacations.  We don’t take them. So what am I doing?  Questioning myself.

Lessons learning, and will be learned on staying grounded.  On one hand, I leave my world for a new one. On the other, I carefully pack parts of my world to bring with me.  For example, obviously I care not to leave my relationship with my son behind.  This is the hardest part – the sheer distance that will separate us.  Or my business. Odd to consider I will begin taking reservations for this little bit of paradise from another one over six thousand miles away.  I embrace my responsibilities, and have no intention (quite the contrary!) of tossing them to the side as I leap onto a limb.   My shoulders are strong and I intend to carry these with me.  Otherwise, I would not go.  I’m really not interested in such frivolity.  Leaving it all behind was fun when I was young. I had nothing else I cared about.  Now I love what I have.  But still want to experience more.  Thus, the added weight, but added fullness of life and character.  Embrace it all.

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looking to indian ridge

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All these darned details of getting there from here (did I mention: with an eighty pound dog?).  Complicated by a different country, a different hemisphere, a different language, trying communications, emotions and relationships. Going where you’ve never been before. Minor details. Get over it.  None of that matters, just makes things hard, and I never said easy was good.  What I’m going for remains the same.

And still it’s all just a small part of the big picture for me.  For you, dear reader, might I guess, the more interesting part?  The rest might seem like boring details in comparison.  They are not for me. Helping my son with course load and career choice decision, setting up a reservation system and advertising for next summer’s bookings, juggling numbers and balancing the books (this never really happens but I go through the motions every year), arrangements for critter care and shutting down our guest ranch for almost four months… Do you really want to read about these things?  (The few of our faithful cabin renters who read the part about cabin bookings are smiling wide and shaking their head saying, “Yes!”)

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winter grass

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Do you know that feeling of arriving at a place you have never been to before?  You know that dream state you find yourself in at first, so odd and a little eerie, of not being sure if you’re really there, or just watching life pass by like a movie until you finally find yourself in there and participating and then it slowly soaks in that it’s real?  Nothing (except perhaps, hands-on positive parenting) brings you more face to face with your inner self.

Did you ever think what you were all about?  Really, take a minute and think about it.  Maybe write it down so it’s clear.  Or tell someone. Then it’s somehow more real. You shared it. Tell me, if you’d like.  I’m glad to listen.  It’s interesting what you learn.

Me, first and foremost, I’m a mother.  Nothing has created me more.  I am a wife. I’m one part of a team of three, my boys and me. (And dang, we are one helluva great team, if I do say so myself.)  I’m a dog mama, a horse mama, and the mama of whatever other animals I’m blessed enough to have and care for.  I’m about nature, solitude, creativity and passion.  I’m not always stable, a little too sensitive and filled with compassion.  I strive for grace, and have so much to learn.

And what about artist, writer? The encore career. Or some may note, back to where I was going before.  After the mothering and housewife part of the job has, well… I can’t say I’ve retired, but that part has turned into more of a hobby, shall we say.  We’re three equals now.  There is less for me to do. Now there is room for more.  More of another side of me.

Somehow this matters. Defining yourself from the start.  For travel will change you.  Not tourism, but travel.  Going to be, not just to see.

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willow branch with frost

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My fingers hover above the keyboard but make no contact.  Slowly they settle, but no letter is pressed.  I am waiting.  Waiting for a way to explain all this and nothing reasonable is coming.  Maybe this isn’t the time.  Make the time.

Writing.  Sharing.  We all have gifts. I believe this is mine.  I’m too shy to give of myself when we’re together.  Some of you have seen that, or figured that out.  This is my thing.  Sharing stories.  Maybe just images.  Images painted in words. Bringing you out there with me.  Or inside, deep within.

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dried grass barbed wire and frost

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This makes no sense, I know.  This is no explanation for where I am going.  Though maybe it is. In a round-about way.  I’m not big on straight lines.

I need to go outside. Everything makes more sense out there.  The crisp morning air. Breathe… Yes!  It’s six below zero (-21C)  without a cloud in the sky and the new sun that just peaked the back side of Finger Mesa to the east has stretched long blue shadows across a rolling, waved hill like a frozen sea of pale golden snow, broken only by a meandering line of tall trees that define the river’s winding path, and then ending abruptly at the jagged wall of black timber on the other side.

After what seems like five minutes of pulling on, piling, layering and zipping up, I’m out there with the dog running way ahead, clearing my path from unforeseen dangers. And my big fat boots, loud. Each step crunching in the dried, sugary snow. White noise if ever I heard one!  Music to my otherwise wildly racing mind.  Relax now, there is nothing to think about except the next noisy step and grasping the next deep breath of this frigid morning air.

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ptarmigan

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Mild retreat

/ Gin Getz / 7 Comments

 

Bring it on

Ready for winter.  The wood shed is packed full. Ten cord of beetle killed spruce, split and stacked and ready to burn.

I have confession to make.  In the form of a hydraulic wood splitter.  Gone for me are the days of wedge and maul. Cheating?  At times I think so. Power tools.  Machines. Something ten years ago I (foolishly?) would have said I never needed.  I may not need it now (at least, I certainly am not going to admit that) but I do like it.  Makes the job go faster with much less effort.  Hard to complain about that.  Though the Mountain Mama in me isn’t always so convinced.  The draw towards traditional is bent out of shape by the noise of motors, moving parts, bells and whistles. This still seems a bit wrong to me.  But my ditch digging shoulders love it, and the job is done, so what can one really complain about?

The hay shed too is filled.  Stacked with small bales piled ten high to get us through the worst of winters.  The horses have already bushed out with their longer winter coats.  The smallest of them, my little Arabian, Flying Crow, started his early this year.  I think by the end of August.  Taking no chances.  Being “hot” here only lasts so long.  And that’s not very long at all.  Cold is a far more common state of being.  He’s been here long enough to know.  By now even memories of his barn and stable in the lower ground are long gone, I’m sure.  He’s a true mountain horse now.

Next we’ll fill the pantry and freezers, though I’m guessing we won’t need three hundred pounds of flour this year.  Forrest will only be joining us for Christmas break, so the cookie jar will empty at a much slower rate, and freshly baked bread will last us an extra day or so.

Yes, I’m ready, thought nothing but sun and mild temperatures are in the forecast.

Will I complain about that?

I think not… What I will do is lace up my hikers, or saddle up my horse and enjoy…

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…

Home again

/ Gin Getz / 12 Comments

We have returned from the weekend away, bringing Forrest home with us. A sense of fulfillment and completion for me, having my family together as a team. The beginning of a well earned summer break for him.  Some break. Building, fencing, digging ditch.  May sound hard to many, but you know we love it all.

He returns to a house that looks the same as it did when he moved out how long ago, when we all moved out, renting out our home and moving to the Little Cabin to increase our cash flow, trying to create a change that seemed so slow to come.  Since then, we moved to around five times, including 1400 miles to northern Washington.  And then back again.  What a lot of work!  And I wouldn’t have it any other way. (Though hiring a moving service seems like a tempting option.) Put super simply, it was all good.

Change. It came, in a big way, and beautifully, and reminds me we are in constant state of change, only sometimes we don’t see it, and other times we may deny it.

And yet, on the surface, it appears we are right where we started.  Same beautiful house, hand crafted, all our years of woodwork and refinement, rough and rustic though it still feels, just the way we like it.  Warm, welcoming. Few come into our home without noting how “comfortable” it is.  The pictures hanging on the wall just where they belong.  Sofas, pots, pans, everything in place as it once was.  Sounds of the woodstoves crackling, one to heat the house against morning temperatures in the teens, the other to cook our breakfast, Forrest’s favorite in a big cast iron skillet ready to be set in the oven. Steller’s Jays pecking at the same feeder even they too remember right where it used to be.

And the view from the window as it has been for half our days here:  white.  For just when we were settling into the balmy spring that felt like flatlands, enticing me to think I might manage growing a tomato or pepper, we are reminded.  These are high, harsh mountains.  And that little bit of snow might just be the reminder we need to show us where we belong.  Home.  Here and now.  We’ll see about tomorrow.

Much more to say, my head seems swirling.  I can’t wait to show Forrest the things that are just as he remembers, and have changed so much. Off to stoke the fires, stir the pot, and wake the boys.

An open letter to my son

/ Gin Getz / 11 Comments

To my dearest Forrest,

And here it ends.
And here it begins.

I leave you in the arms of another mountain. Listen, if I may ask, for a moment to me. And then to the mountains. The rush of her rivers. The hush of her winds. You will never be alone. Let her embrace you.

This mountain, your mountain, a grand mountain indeed. She will always be there for you. She is yours. You chose her. Turn to her when you need to. She will listen. Some days she will shed tears of freezing rain or hail as your heart opens and breaks and mends. Other days she will enwrap you in her bliss with warm lazy sun to allow you a brief repose, or soft deep powder and invite you like a tempting muse to come and play. Enjoy it all; she has so much to give.

You found her. I see who you have chosen as your own for the first time and she has taken my breath away. She dwarfs our dear San Juans and the entire state of Colorado and the most dramatic mountains we have intimately known and lived on to date. And now, she is yours. She has lured you. And she has earned you, you wonderful and true child of the mountains.

You chose her. How brave and mighty! Do you see how you have grown? Perhaps I did not really see until now, until I turned one more curve in the road of these last two weeks driving together to be here, and there she is before us, grand and mighty and eternal, still and calm and old and wise, and my heart beats faster for her beauty is profound and she feels so right.

I am proud of you. Incredibly proud. You are a brave and bold (though quiet) sort. Your wild child side is strong!

You have earned your place here; you are worthy of your next great stage in life, the next opportunities, challenges and adventures. I watch this tall bright fine man standing next to me speaking for himself and I shine with such delight and honor. On one hand, I can say eighteen years of work paid off. This job is complete. And yet, I know parenting is never complete. It only changes and evolves. I guess I’m enjoying our evolving relationship as I am enjoying you as a growing man.

Everything changes. We do all we can to make change positive. This, my bud, is a dream come true. A wonderful, positive, beautiful dream.

To this mountain I now give you. I will leave you here. That is the hardest thing I have ever said.

For four years she will hold, include, support and nurture you. Accept her embrace. Revel in her fresh waters and unending views and powerful presence of jutting slopes, and delicate array of swaying wild grasses with jewels of seed heads ripening to full blossom in their short growing season that you understand so well. Remember to take time to notice the little things, the simple things, the quiet voices of the mountain you’ll hear only when you’re alone with her, quiet and still, touching and listening. Find a new rock to sit on, your place, a place to allow you to look within. Turn to her when you need the comfort that only the mountains can allow, only a mother, our mother, the mother of us all, Mother Earth.

And then I, your mother of this earth, shall turn her back to hide the tears as she steps into the truck and turns back to a home that is no longer hers. One we built together, for each other. I never meant to bring you this far only to leave you in a foreign land two thousand miles away. I shall keep our family together and shall be closer soon.

In the meanwhile, learn, study, grow, live, play, work, and enjoy all the wonder and beauty and richness that life has to offer and still thirst for more.

May her rivers never go dry, and may your thirst never be completely quenched so that you may always be open for more.

I can say no more. This is not good bye. You know I hate good byes.

And so I leave you to this mountain. But I leave you not in heart and soul.

I love you.