personal stories

Starting with a typical day

/ Gin Getz / 7 Comments

And us…

Starting with a typical day.

Yesterday.

5:30 a.m. and my world is already light.  I hate that.  I’d rather rise not only before the sun, but before the light.  But somehow, when we don’t finish dinner till after 9, then clean up, wash up (ah… the beloved bath… enjoy it while I still can as another summer without indoor plumbing or running water awaits us), catch up and reading to unwind… somehow this makes waking earlier harder. 

In spite of the bath, I wake with sore muscles.  A pleasant reminder of how much we got done the day before. A permanent part of early spring.  Taking it easy and going slow is out of the question when you’ve waited for months to see the ground.  Now is the time to DO.  Winter will come again.  Though this coming winter promises great surprises.  For us as well as you. I’ll explain all that another time.

The pup has learned his place, quiet beside me, ignoring the cats that remain always frisky in the first of morning.  I sit on the sofa with his warm furry body on one side, the wood stove softly purring on the other, and the computer on my lap.  Less creative writing, more correspondence as tourist season approaches and the mountain and our world prepares to open up.

Chores, feeding the horses, a pleasure right now, as the panic of winter has passed and the horses have this easy calm about them.  Soft eyes and ears, they’re happy for breakfast when it comes, but are not tense in anticipation.  Now they have time to look me in the eye as if saying a polite, “Thank you,” then lower  their heads with a gentle sigh and graciously take what is given to them.

The last of their winter coats are still holding, despite daily brushings and their spring de-worming.  Another week, and they too will be bright and shiny as was the description of our greatly anticipated Norman, the new draft horse arriving tomorrow from his family in Texas. Almost a swap, for Texas is where our old draft, Gizmo, was allowed for an early retirement.

Then we jog, on this morning, just Gunnar and me.  Yes, jog. Usually all of us.  As if we didn’t get enough exercise throughout the day, you ask?  Heck, I’m only up to two miles.  A long ways to go before any marathons.  But not too bad for 10,000 feet elevation. Part training for the pup to stay with me at a heel, and training for us two leggeds, for it began just a month ago inspired by Forrest’s fundraiser (the High Country Hustle).  In any case, we started on packed snowmobile tracks, then frozen slush, then mud.  Biting snow blowing in our faces as we faced into the morning storms was not unusual.  We’re hearty. And you can’t let your life wait on soft sunny days. Get out there, I say! So there we were, in muck boots, if you can picture that, the three of us with our long skinny legs running up the mountain in tall rubber boots.

Now the road is back to dirt. Hard, dry dirt.  And I don running shoes.  And truly, it feels fabulous!

We return and the boys are up. Sort of.  Silently stumbling around, but at least with smiles. I get breakfast going on the old cook stove.  Homemade toast fried in the big cast iron skillet, home grown eggs with big and brown shells and glowing orange yolks.  Nothing fancy, but hearty and rich.  “Eggs and toast again…”  I’ve heard them complain.  Forrest has yet to have cold cereal for breakfast.  Ah, college will bring many surprises for him.

Then the day really begins.  There’s a gate to fix. Bob’s out there welding.  We bring the horses in for training and grooming, brushing off their winter coats, and polishing up old manners, teaching good new ones.  Two yearlings, two three year olds, and a few that just need to shine up the rusty patches.  I know the feeling.  Working with the horses, sitting in the saddle or on their soft warm backs, feels awkward again at first.  For maybe the first two days.  Then I’m back to wishing I had nothing better to do and could be there all day (and I swear the horses wish the same).

Nearly fifty by noon, but a good biting spring wind to remind us we’re in the mountains.

But we have lots more to do.  Getting the ranch and cabins set for our final season.  And construction.  Always construction!  Starting with the bathroom remodel.  The last of the old bathrooms from the original guest cabins… We ripped it out, exterior walls and all, last fall. Figured we’d just start from scratch.  Had the big cavernous hole to the cabin blocked off with tarps for the winter, and only now are we able to break up the ground to dig in new pipes – with a jackhammer.  Frozen solid soil.  Testament to how deep our frost line goes and how late it remains.   (Don’t worry, Bob P – we’ll have it done in time for you!)

Anyway, that’s just part of it.  Suffice to say I find myself quitting before the sun does, wishing I could hold out longer, but fantasizing about how good that bath and a hot dinner will feel.  Except of course, then I have to cook that hot meal. Thus the late dinners in Spring.

So… the rest of my updates will wait for another day.  I’ve got work to do.  But as Maggie reminds me, there should always be time for keeping up with friends.

Beginning with the birds

/ Gin Getz / 7 Comments

Starting with the birds. 

The sky is alive. A speckled sky, fluttering with activity, motion, wings and song, as the snow continues to fall. Birds everywhere.  Black dots in leafless trees. Brewers blackbirds, nuthatch, starling, common crows, mountain blue birds, stellar jays, finches, juncos and grosbeaks. 

The shrill call of the redwing blackbird lends a staccato refrain to the gentle background melody of the robin.  Such beauty in their simple tune.

The ground moves, and upon second glace, down there with the doves, we see the cowbirds scratching at last year’s seeds, melting out a tiny patch of snow about them, leaving a tell tale circle of dark, wet ground when they fly away all together, all at once, only to settle back down almost where they started from.

During breakfast, while the snow falls in white feathered flakes, the long black bird I can only figure might be a cormorant or ibis (anyone know?) cuts across the view in a perpendicular line along the storm  softened horizon.

And then a raven on the fence post looking down. I follow his gaze to the ground.  Beneath a blue spruce we planted there years ago, now well established, a healthy young tree much taller than me.  There in the wake of the boughs, a ruffled mass of brown and spots.  I slip on my boots to inspect. The injured grouse flies off, the raven trailing, leaving a trace of blood and feathers behind.

At times I wish to intervene with nature. 

And then the weather.

A little bit of everything.  I have felt rain.  Seen our fair share of spring snow.  And then in one sunny day, the ground melts out, dries and promises us a productive spring.  The grass is greening in the moisture. When we can see it, beneath the regular coverings of white.

It’s up for grabs.  And we grab it all. A longing to see everything, feel touch taste smell each softening change of the season, experience the intimacy we have known and shared at a time when the mountain opens, beckons and still no one stays.  A bittersweet acceptance, knowing it will not last.  On one hand, such excitement.  On the other, a combination of fear and grasping for the past.  The latter is the weaker hand.  The past does not draw me like the future does.  Can we work to make a better past? Yet how many try? We can work for a better tomorrow. 

Remember the quote by Hunter S. Thompson:

“Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well-preserved body, but rather skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming, ‘Wow! What a ride!’”

Seems not a popular view as I look around lives and towns and a country of safe and easy and holding on tight to memories and positions and safe choices.  But I like it.  I think I want to slide into home base.  Only quietly.  So I can hear the birds along the way.

I begin by listening.  In the darkness of the early morning before I look up and out, and remain safe and warm in my own little world, my home.

Still, even there and then, the robin’s song, the spring song, penetrates.  I am warmer still by their refrain.

Spring mornings are all about birds. A dramatic change from the silence of winter, when the only sound of birds is the slow scratching panic of the jays on frigid mornings as they await their handout, or the slow steady pulsing beat of one of the two ravens that share the cover of our trees all winter long.  Like the sound of air through the lungs of a running horse.

Now the morning cacophony as I step out under the sheltered deck to check on the horses before feeding time. 

These birds. Congregating here and now.  Regrouping perhaps, resting, enjoying their free meal after their long journey north.  Some will continue onward.  We won’t see them again until fall, if fall finds me still here. The rest will dissipate as the tourists congregate.

Many will head for the hills, for the shelter of higher ground and fewer people, dogs and roaring motors.  We will see them up at the ditch.  A fine place to meet again.

And then I will be gone.  And the birds will fare fine on their own.  And I will be out there feeding a new flock, in a new home, in a new land.

And so, about us. 

Though I guess I’ve taken up enough of your time for one sitting.

I’ll save the rest for next time.

Updates

/ Gin Getz / Leave a comment

It’s spring.  Time flies. Spring ahead. Sorry for the clichés.  It’s easier.  I’m busy.  Bet you are too. That, my friend, is what spring is famous for.  Enjoy it.  I intend to.  And in fact, I do. 

I’ll start with gardens.  I said I wouldn’t but I couldn’t resist. And our friend Bob (another Bob) who will be spending part of the summer here with us is a gardener too, so might as well.  So there I am back and forth with wheelbarrow upon wheelbarrow of horse manure, one more thing that’s both a blessing and a curse, but one I’m glad I have plenty of, and for more than one reason.

And the horses, ah, my beautiful graceful eloquent graceful beings!  To see them begin to shed their winter coats and sleek out for the season.  Bob trims their feet, we begin with ground work, and start to saddle up.  Quickly they remember their manners after the winter off.  They forget nothing, and are surprisingly eager to please.  Moving feels good.  Using their brain doesn’t hurt either.  These are smart creatures with a need for a purpose and a desire to get a job done.  Just watch their attention as they think about the task at hand and slowly shift gears and figure it out. And then we watch the glorious spectacle of them running, finally running, out on pasture, on solid ground, for the first time in so many months, and they do because it feels so sweet and that’s what those long legs are really for, and we dream of being there, on them, with them, riding like the wind, and can’t wait for the trails to open, just a little more melting and drying, and then, yes, we too will be out there riding with them, on them, in the wind, on the wind, of the wind.

And then there were the huge white wings.  Two big white birds.  The only pure white bird I have seen up here before was once a Whooping Crane that I still have trouble believing I actually saw.  And yesterday there were two.  Broad white graceful expanses like angels in the mountains.  They were far away when I sited them, and I never got a good enough look.  I don’t know what they were.  Except beautiful, and some might say a good omen, and that is enough for me.

There’s also the big black bird, I can only guess a cormorant, the closest bird I could find in the book, who was hiding amongst the crows.  Clever disguise.

We know our birds.  Plenty of seasons for plenty of years alone with them, feeding, watching, singing back and forth, our only neighbors for the better part of the year.  Out there, in there, with them. When you know your regular birds so well, an unusual exotic new one stands out and is quite noticeable.  We noticed.

I’m getting long winded here and haven’t covered half of what I wanted to share. Time to get out there and get things done!  I’ll save the rest for tomorrow…

Childhood

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments


I carried him until he was seven. There he’d be, a regular appendage, content and strapped on my back. Folks would say that before too long his feet would be touching the ground behind me and I could just kick back and let him carry me.

You see, I didn’t want to slow down, but I didn’t want to leave him behind. Carrying him was my compromise.

And I wanted him to have what I missed. The things I would have liked. Not that I was neglected. But I was rushed. The last of four kids, growing up and moving on was something expected of me before I was usually ready. Not a big trauma by any means, but it left an impression. Enough so that I decide I wanted my child to be able to take his time growing up. At his own pace, without rush or pressure. To know comfort was always there if he needed it, a place to fall back on, and then when he was truly ready, the foundation solid, he’d have what it takes to step forward with confidence.

At least that was my theory. You can’t say I didn’t try. Any although it’s easy to see some of the things I did give him that others didn’t have, like horses, wildlife, quiet time, and home baked bread, you also can easily see what he missed. After school sports, birthday parties, Friday night dates, riding his bike to the corner store, and going to the mall or movies.

I think now, as his childhood comes to a close, he does not feel terribly lacking. If you look at him now, would you say he missed out? Would you notice him to be any different?

I’ve been back and forth for years worrying about the things he missed out on, the things I deprived him of. Ultimately I believed he’d be ok. That this unusual upbringing would shape him in a most positive way. That the things he missed would not outweigh those special things he had that others did not. Snowmobiling for his afternoon break. A summer job alongside his parents. Time talking, thinking, listening to the wind. Fresh eggs from the chickens he raised.

And the question so many have asked me. Growing up in a wild land without fences or boundaries to contain him, why didn’t he get in trouble more? He learned to keep a level head. I don’t know if that’s something you can teach or if it’s something you just figure out. In any case, he got it.

My theory on this was that raising a kid is kind of like keeping a dog on a leash all the time. They’ll never learn where they belong if they are not give the chance to figure it out, make a few mistakes, and find where they want to be. For the most part. You can’t let them run crazy and into the street. But you got to have some trust. I think a good deal of what he learned was because of his observing nature. He learned from seeing foolish mistakes of others, bad choices by the unprepared tourists we’ve had to rescue more than a few times. He learned how many traumas and dramas can be avoided with common sense, and careful planning, preparation and action. And yes, I always trusted him. He had to deal with his own guilt if (and when) he messed that part up. He didn’t often.

But I think one of the biggest reasons for why he might not feel like he missed out too much was because of Bob. Were it not for Bob, it would be different. He’d have missed out on the lighter side of life, stale humor, goofy actions, dirty jokes, and wild rides. Remember, he got the two-for-one deal. Brother and father in one. And best friend. Added bonus.

My boys.

There they are now, far from this mountain, kicking back in two separate beds in some hotel room eating hot wings and pizza they had delivered for dinner, and watching Ice Road Truckers, Pawn Stars, or Mythbusters on TV. And this is how Forrest’s future unfolds and begins.

I’m actually quite intrigued by what is put on TV. And what people chose to watch. And after twenty something years of living without it, I don’t miss it one tiny bit.

But it’s deeper than that. They aren’t there for the TV, per se, but for looking at a college that I think is going to lure him in for next four years of his life, and open his horizons far beyond the beauty of the mountain and security of home. And I’m proud of him.

Me, I’m back home with the horses, chickens, cats and dog, awaiting news that probably won’t come until they’re home and relaxing and sitting down, then begin unfolding their tales like wings on a dragonfly, so delicate and fine with each tender vein carefully revealed in the light.

Ah, storytelling. What a pleasure! The exquisite delight of sharing tales that speaks wonders for why we don’t have TV.

They won’t waste such stories for e-mail or text messages. Though I sort of wish they would. I’d like to know more.

My boys. I suppose I should call them men now. Men of few words. Leave me hanging, guessing, wondering what they’re up to.

Bob tells me, “You’ve always said take care of each other. That’s what we do.”

So there they are, in a distant corner of the country, over a thousand miles away, deciding my son’s future, and I’m here, far away and can’t help or be involved or do anything about it.

And you know what?
It’s ok.
And at the same time, I smile and cry.
My little boy has grown up.