Stories

Colorado Dinosaur Bones

We got the heck outta town a few weeks ago and drove up to see the Dinosaur National Monument. We spent a few hours (and $25.00 entrance fee) cozying up to a collection of dinosaur bones embedded in the side of a rock face. The National Monument and the Dinosaur Quarry is located near Vernal, Utah at the border of Colorado and Utah.

Both me and my Mom have always been fascinated by geology and what can be found within the rocks that cover our earth. Mom jokes that she’s almost as old as the dinosaur bones. But far from it. She’s such a kidder!

It’s fascinating that creatures that large roamed the earth, but when you get close to the bones, you get a sense as to the size. It’s also very interesting to read the story of the paleontologist, Earl Douglas, who stumbled over bones projecting out of the rocks, which led him to start digging in 1909. President Woodrow Wilson made the area an official national monument in 1915. Read more about the Dinosaur Monument history.

The interesting thing is, all these bones were found piled up on top of one another and embedded in the rock. It makes you wonder how that happened. Well, they believe the dinosaurs died in a flooded riverbed which washed the bodies and bones to an area where their bodies stacked up in one spot. That’s why this was such a great discovery!

And they’re still finding more bones! In the summer of 2019, paleontologists found a Stegosaurus femur, three intact teeth and countless other fossils. Read all about these latest discoveries.

We were glad to find the Quarry Museum air-conditioned, but they do require you to be masked in order to enter. It can get pretty toasty in the summer, so bring a hat and water if you decide to hike the trails at the Monument.

It does leave you with a sense of awe that creatures like this lived in our neck of the woods, so to speak. And if you’re hankering to see more fossils and dinosaur bones, you can also visit Garden Park Fossil Area near Canyon City, Colorado.

Camping with Hubby at Flaming Gorge

We visited Flaming Gorge. There’s nothing like a camping trip to strengthen the bonds between husband and wife.

Thankfully Doug did all the preliminary research, made reservations, and got us safely to the campground after we visited Dinosaur National Monument. He’s great with logistics. All I had to do was sit in the truck and let him do all the driving. He also packed the truck, unloaded the truck, set up the tent and the canopy too. Then he carried both kayaks 98.367 yards down to the water’s edge. (I did carry my makeup bag to the tent.)

In case you think I must be a real prima donna, I did the shopping, meal planning, packed the coolers and did all the cooking. I’ll have you know that in 19th century Italy, a prima donna refers to the “first lady” in an opera who performs leading roles. Generally she sang more music than other women in the company. In other words, she did the most of the work.

So being a prima donna isn’t always a bad thing. I entertained my wonderful hubby by breaking into song the entire way there and back. Just sayin’, I do earn my keep!

Once we got to the campground, it was time to pick the best spot for the tent. You don’t want it too close to the fire and the opening should face the picnic table. There can’t be too many lumps on the ground and it’s got to be level. While our site was close to the potty, it couldn’t be downwind.

Every year we have to re-learn which tent poles go where and in what order. There’s nothing funnier than watching two fairly intelligent people trying to teach each other how to understand simple directions. And it’s amazing how instructions can be easily misunderstood:

Hubby: “Grab that pole and push it towards me.”

Me: “Which pole?”

Hubby: “The long one. Push it over this way.”

Me: “What way?”

Hubby: “Push it through the sleeve on the top.”

Me: “It’s stuck.”

Hubby: “Here let me come over and do it. You hold the corner down.”

Me: “Which corner?”

After the tent was finally set up, we took a quick drive over to the Visitor’s Center. We camped within a few miles of the Flaming Gorge Reservoir, a beautiful mini-Grand Canyon that borders Utah and northwest Colorado. When we got there, we approached a sign that said, “Danger Cliffs. Guard your children.” Nobody has to tell me twice. I’ve been afraid of heights my entire life. Just thinking of it as I write this article twists my stomach in knots.

We could have gone horseback riding while we there there, but the trail meandered along the rim. That was a deal breaker. Why would I want to climb up on something five feet higher to look down into the abyss? Even at the Visitor’s Center I wouldn’t go near the corner window, which was suspended over the gorge. I let Doug take the pictures.

The next day we took the kayaks out. Now, I’m fine with water. I grew up with lakes and pools and even competed in synchronized swimming events. I have no problem getting into the kayak; it’s the getting out that gives me the trouble. Thank goodness Doug was a submariner in the Navy. He knows all about how to lift heavy, awkward, talkative objects out of the water.

We had a great time once we got settled at camp. The weather was perfect and the bugs were few. Once it got dark, we started a campfire and sat with our heads tilted way back looking at the stars. There was no light pollution and we could even see the Milky Way and tons of shooting stars. It was a wonderful experience.

Doug leaned over to me and said, “Isn’t it great we get to sit here in the woods, smell the pines and look at the stars?” I replied, “You mean like we do when we’re home?” Ha! Somehow it’s different when you drive six hours, get woodsmoke in your clothes, sleep on the ground and put up with noisy neighbors!

But after two days of tenting, I was ready for a shower. So, we packed everything up (again) and moved over to the cabin he’d reserved. T’was a welcome change. If you ever decide to go, we stayed at the Red Canyon Lodge near Flaming Gorge. There is a small lake there in case you want to take your kayaks or canoe.

We had planned to move from the cabin back to the tent on our last day, but I hated the thought of setting everything back up again. Instead, we left a day early and stopped along the way for a visit at my brother’s house. He has a shower.

Now, just so you know, I don’t mind tenting. We’re fairly mobile and have a better selection of camping spots. I like it better than trying to navigate one of those huge campers. But after you get home and think of all the work you put into the trip, you might question whether it was worth it.

Yes, yes it was. The stars, campfire, kayaking, snuggling together in the tent and seeing Flaming Gorge definitely was worth it. And now that we’re home, we really appreciate our comfy bed and a full sized shower!

We still have noisy neighbors, however. There’s nothing like a few screech owls to remind you of the great outdoors!

The Engineer’s Wife

I married an engineer.

You’re talking to a woman who doesn’t balance her checkbook, goes by the rule “good enough IS enough” and cooks by the seat of her pants. As my former boss knows all too well, the term “planning” is anathema to me. Risk assessment is a phrase I’ve never much dwelled on. Project management scares me silly and “measure twice, cut once” is a lesson I still haven’t learned.

Enter my wonderful husband, Doug.

He balances his checkbook to the penny, glories in the magic of spreadsheets, color codes his calendar and keeps emails longer than I’ve kept tax records.

I’ve learned a lot in the four short years we’ve been married.

For example: it’s “soil” not dirt; it’s “concrete” not cement; and it’s “fuel” not gas.

I’ve grown used to pillow-talk on Subsurface Utility Engineering, foundation design, reinforced concrete slab, erosion control BMP (best management practices), traffic control device spacing and signal timing.

Oooo, baby! Whisper it to me slowly!

When we read in bed, I’m absorbed in Jerry Jenkins’ Left Behind books. Doug is knee deep in Reinforced Concrete Design.

We have baggies of “soil” all over the house and a jar of dirt and water measuring the separation of clay and sand. The official name is “Sediment Suspension Test” in case you were wondering. The jar sits among other decorative items on our fireplace mantle. While Doug observes sediment layers measured in centimeters, I see an image of snow covered sage bushes.

He’s planning a leach field for our future home and texts me love notes of holes in the ground with protruding measuring implements. Last year for Christmas I got him the Survey Linker Rod he asked for. I call it a BMS – Big Measuring Stick.

Our dinner conversations are all about perc tests and clay deposits.

The garage is now organized with every rake and shovel and broom in their own special spot. A tennis ball hangs to indicate the exact spot to park the car. Tools nest in drawers according to size and function.

When I hang a picture on the wall, it’s a hit or miss process. He’ll measure from stem to stern (he’s a Navy guy) to find the right place for the nail. I marvel at how he only needs one hole to do the job right.

Yet, I’m the fussy one when it comes to loading the dishwasher. I re-arrange to get maximum cleanliness. And God help anyone who puts plates in the wrong spot. I’m sensitive to water flow and soap dispersion, ya know.

Together we make a great pair. We poke fun at our quirks and find plenty to laugh about. I love his wit and sense of humor. He puts up with my penchant to collect books, boxes and old furniture.

I call him “Cookie Monster” ‘cause he sneaks out of bed at night to raid the pantry. He calls me “Blondie” although these days, it’s more a pet name than a fact.

We’re lucky we found each other. And he’s the best Cabin Dude this Cabin Mama could ever have hoped for!

The Bigger the Fur Balls the Better

Animals are funny. Never thought I’d say this, but they seem like they’re almost human.

We are step-parents to my daughter’s dog, Penny, a lovely chocolate lab. She’s won our hearts, but that doesn’t mean she’s got us wrapped around her finger (or paw).

Take feeding time for example. We have a routine where we let her out for her morning relief before filling her food dish. She’s barely finished her business outside when she makes a mad dash up onto the deck, through the door and over to her food bowl. You’ve never seen such unbridled enthusiasm! She’s panting hard, rearing up on her hind legs and bouncing around the kitchen like a baby goat. Then she gobbles down her food, navigating her way around the plastic maze in her bowl designed to slow down the gulping action.

She knows a few words quite well: treat, food, dinner, time to eat, and outside are the primary ones. She also knows “rope” which refers to the knotted rag rope she chews on, wrestles with, and drags all over the house. To her credit, she also knows the words sit, wait, stay, and lay down.

Oh, and it’s a big deal when someone pulls in the driveway or she hears the doorbell. What a ruckus! This summer I was on an HGTV kick. There was a commercial every ten minutes that featured a doorbell. I would grab the remote and mute the volume to keep her from launching into another dramatic home protection response. It’s great to have a dog around for protective purposes, but I wanted to spare her (and me) the drama of false alarms.

It amazes me how much Penny understands and displays human-like behaviors. She’s a consummate beggar and is picky about the person on whom she showers her attention. That would be my husband, Doug. But food trumps all. When he finishes his meal and there’s no more to be had, if I’m still eating she moves right over to me. She sits there, focused like a laser beam on each bite I take. Her head tilts and her eyebrows twist. If I look over at her, she wags her tail. The tail wagging speed is commensurate with the likelihood of accessing food. If I move to get up from the table, she goes into hyperdrive and follows the plate (not me) over to the counter.

When she does something worthy of a T.R.E.A.T., I put it down on the floor and she knows enough to wait. She sits there staring at the morsels, then ever so slowly tilts her head and looks up at me with those big brown eyes under bushy eyebrows with a pleading expression. You can almost hear her thinking, “Please ma’am, can I have some more?”

I swear she has an alarm clock in her belly. She knows she gets fed in the morning after her trip outside, so I can understand that. But her evening feeding instincts are mind boggling. She’ll come trotting over to me and when I try to pet her, she’ll veer away in the direction of her food dish. This gets repeated a few times, just to make sure her purpose is clear. This act can start about 3 pm. When I get her drift, I look down at her and say, “No, it’s not time yet.” Then she snorts, sneezes, circles around a few times and plops herself down at my feet to wait.

Her feeding time is anytime from 4pm on. At 4pm on the button, she signals it’s that special time (in case I had forgotten). As I move toward the food bowl and say, “Alright, alright!” the bouncing and panting begins. (I wish my kids had been that enthusiastic when they came to the dinner table!)

Her food bowl is designed like a plastic maze with corridors where the food accumulates as I pour it in. This “slow feeder bowl” is supposed to slow down the eating process and minimize gulping. I’d hate to think how fast she’d eat if the maze wasn’t there. It’s all gone in a matter of minutes. My daughter put a sign on the dog food container that says, “Penny has been fed. Don’t let her fool you!” It’s designed to prevent others in the household from taking pity on her and thinking she’d not yet been fed. The sign also says “morning” on one side and “night” on the other, so we can avoid falling prey to her oh-so-persuasive doggie charms. We flip the sign over to signify what time of the day she’s already been fed.

I’ve always been a cat person so being adoptive parents to my daughter’s dog was a new adventure. She is a sweetheart who follows me from room to room and settles down at my feet to nap. She’s easily pleased. Food and love are all she craves. We can do no wrong in her eyes. Now I understand the adage about trying to be the person your dog thinks you are.

Then there’s our cat, Snickers. She rarely interacts with Penny because she’s better, ya know. She’s really in charge and just puts up with the interloper. Occasionally, Penny will get a little too close, causing a quick response from Snickers, the princess. There’s hissing, batting of paws and (if looks could kill) an expression of pure contempt. I call it the Garfield look.

Snickers makes it clear when she’s hungry too. We’ve indulged her and it shows. Her pudgy tummy and apron swings back and forth as she trots down the hallway to her napping spot. At the end of the day, she hops up on our bed, makes a few quick loops around the perimeter and settles in next to my husband. During the night though, I feel a hot, furry body snuggled up next to me, which is nearly impossible to nudge out of the way. (It’s not my husband, silly.) She sleeps close most of the night unless she jumps to the floor and makes that awful hacking sound of an emerging fur ball. Do I get up in the middle of the night to clean up the mess? Nope. But we tread carefully in the morning.

Speaking of fur, we get a “two-fer” between cat and dog hair. Of course, I could clean more often. But why do that when cat hair gets deposited in little wet fur balls on the carpet and dog hair rolls down the hallway like tumbling tumbleweeds? It’s so much easier to just pick them up and put them in the trash. Why do all that vacuuming?

I’m afraid we’re hooked on having a dog and a cat, but my husband talks of us getting a horse or two. I say, the bigger the fur balls, the better!

Cooking With Pearls

My siblings and I have a talented Mom who turns tuna, noodles and mushroom soup into a feast fit for a king. Our memories are filled with bubbling pots of savory stews, creamy casseroles and mouth-watering desserts. Mom made liver look good. She dedicated her time and creativity to keep six stomachs full while my Dad worked non-stop to feed his happy horde.

My brothers watch the Food Network. For fun. They glory in barbecue, brisket, spices and sauce. If you want their attention, just whisper, “Talk foodie for me.” My sister will whip up a quiche at the drop of a hat and serve countertops full of delectable dishes at each family gathering.

But me? I’m not a cook.

I read recipes the same way I read science fiction. I get to the end and say to myself, ‘Well, that’s not going to happen!’ — Rita Rudner

You’ll never catch me floating around the house in an apron and pearls looking like June Cleaver or Julia Child. Before the wildfire, I had a few cookbooks and a recipe box I rarely opened. I make a mean banana bread, but will serve up the same simple fare for a long suffering sweetie who loves me for my conversational skills. I’ve been known to scrape and serve burned toast and disguise lumpy gravy with onions.

Of course, baking a birthday cake at 7500 feet can present some problems. But I wanted my son to beam with pride and family to swoon in delight at my scrumptious concoction. I would blush, careful not to steal the limelight, but bask in just enough glory and adulation to be memorable.

“What? Me? Another Julia Child? Aw, c’mon, you don’t really mean that! You DO? No, it’s nothing, really. I made it from scratch in my spare time from an old family recipe.”

The beep of a pre-heated oven snapped me back to reality. It was time to get down to business, so I read the high altitude tips on the back of the box. In went the extra flour with water and butter. I prepared the pans, poured in the delectable goo and popped them both through the oven door. And then I prayed. I prayed to The Pioneer Woman for just a smidge of success, secretly hoping one day I too could make it big from a blog.

The moment of truth arrived. T’was time to cast my eyes upon the miracle I’d made. Two golden orbs of sweet smelling deliciousness stared up at me. I carefully lifted them up and out of the oven, knowing a tap on the counter would free them from their buttery bonds. I would marvel at my skill as each layer fell gracefully (in slow motion) ever-so-gently onto the plate below.

But something was terribly wrong. The darned things were sticking.

If I wasn’t careful, I would soon have a crumbly mess. Large chunks would rip away, revealing grotesquely gaping holes. No amount of frosting would disguise it. I could see those family faces now — eyes wide in shock, mouths twisted in disgust at the senseless destruction of a perfectly good cake. My son would race from the room, sobbing uncontrollably.

It was time for drastic action. Deftly removing my pearls, I reached for my weapons and slowly walked towards whatever fate would deal me. Cold and unforgiving in my grip, these instruments of force were intricately carved, handed down from my great-grandfather through the generations — only to be used if there was no other resort. My son tried to intervene, but I shook him off, demanding he run for cover. I stopped and planted my feet on the hard, dusty ground.

(The theme song from Clint Eastwood’s The Good, The Bad and The Ugly played in the background.)

“This. Ends. Here.” I growled.

With a steady gaze and a lightening fast flip of my spatulas, the uncooperative cakes broke free and landed with a thud, lifeless and beaten. Overhead, turkey buzzards circled in the blinding sunshine and shimmering heat, waiting for a chance to attack their meal.

Oh wait, those were my guests! They came, they sat, they devoured everything in sight. My son looked at me differently that day and forever after. And I, dear reader, now knew how it felt to be tested, revel in the thrill of victory and take my place alongside bakery bastions, heroes and legends!

A Mechanically Challenged Cabin Mama

My husband brought home a tractor. It’s big, green and comes from Mr. John Deere.

And he’s as happy as a pig in “you-know-what” moving dirt around. I was amazed at how many levers and controls are on the thing. The owner’s manual is about three inches thick, but he worked his way through it in just a few hours. He’s an engineer, so to him, this how-to guide is like a romance novel to the rest of us. Then he hopped right up in the driver’s seat and took control of it like the macho man he is. (I can just imagine the book cover now!)

Me? I’m still afraid of my InstantPot. I got it for Christmas and have yet to cook anything in it. My daughter (who gave me the gift) encourages me by saying, “Mom, it’s not much different than cooking on the stove.” But still I hesitate. My guess is that once I use it a few times, I’ll want to InstantPot every meal we eat. Then, I’ll expect a blue ribbon and tons of praise for my efforts, thank you very much!

Yes, I admit it; I’m mechanically challenged. My daughter, however, spent 30 minutes on YouTube then changed the timing belt on her SUV. I was so proud of her I almost busted my buttons! Me, on the other hand, I never even learned how to change the oil in my car. (She can do that too.)

Yours truly has been known to drive around with the parking break on.

It’s not because I’m blonde (most days). It’s not because I don’t have enough grey matter — I’m a pretty sharp cookie (most days). I just have a healthy fear and respect for the risks involved should something go wrong. Let’s just say I’d rather not be thought a fool should I fail. If I do fail, I’d rather it be with devices that don’t do much damage or cost a lot to repair. Our manual can opener is a good bet.

When my oldest was five, he pushed me aside from a kitchen gadget I was trying to fix and said, “Here Mom, I’ll do that for you!” And by golly, he did. Even HE could tell I was in over my head. It’s moms like me who hate to admit, “So easy a five year old can do it!”

Even my 90 year old mother puts me to shame. She can wield a glue gun like nobody’s business and whip up a silk flower wreath in sixty minutes or less. Gosh darn, I’m lucky I can maneuver my curling iron.

The other day my husband asked me if I wanted to get in the driver’s seat and take the tractor for a spin. I rolled my eyes and reminded him I hadn’t even tried out the lawn mower yet.

Maybe I’m not so dumb after all!

Cats Gone Crazy

There I was, wrapping gifts on my bed with plastic bags, wrapping paper, boxes and ribbons laying around. Both cats were in the room and they were having a heyday playing with the paper clippings and plastic wrappers.

(My cats as kittens)

It was a beautiful summer day and I had both the big windows open looking out over the distant hills and the street below. The breeze fluttered through and made for a very calm and peaceful afternoon.

But then it happened. Missy got herself tangled up in a plastic bag and it freaked her out! She tore around on the bed trying to get the bag off, then leapt to the floor and did laps around the bedroom. The bag sailed behind her like a piece of unfurled boat canvas. I tried to no avail to catch her. She was too fast for me and as much as I tried, she eluded my grasp, darting around the bed, under the dresser and over the headboard.

That wasn’t all! Our other cat, Fuzzy, saw Missy’s turmoil and tore off after her. I don’t know why she freaked out too, but emotions must be just as catchy in animals as they are with humans.

So now I had TWO cats streaking around the bedroom in circles! They were becoming more frantic by the minute and it seemed like this went on for ages! I ran to the bedroom door and slammed it shut to keep them from getting out, which seemed to make them even more panicky. Before I could catch either one of them, Missy leapt towards the window. She flew straight through the screen and sailed out into the open air. Two stories up. Then, Fuzzy jumped right out after her!

Two cats sailed out into the wild blue yonder with nothing below to catch them but grass. I ran to the window to see if they were okay and when I looked down, the cats were nowhere to be seen.

However, below stood a stunned couple standing stock still, looking up at me as I looked down at them. Their mouths were wide open, then they burst into laughter. Doubled over and barely able to breathe, the woman said, “That’s the funniest thing we’ve ever seen! Cats flying out of a window — it isn’t something you see everyday!”

It was pretty funny when I think back on it. Fortunately the cats were okay and I was able to corral them back into the house. They were shaken, panting hard and scared as the dickens! It’ll teach me to leave plastic bags lying around where they can get into them. I should resort to something less tempting — either that or shut my windows!

Big Beautiful Birthday Surprise

I was beginning to learn that Doug had a great sense of humor and was also good at springing surprises on me. My birthday was no exception.

As the date approached, I coyly let him know I didn’t have any plans for that night. Being the gentleman he was he said, “Well, of course we’re going to have to celebrate! How about supper out that night?” And I said yes, with a smile.

He arrived at the house to pick me up with a long narrow box wrapped in birthday paper and urged me to open it before we went out. What could it be? I imagined all kinds of exciting things. I tore open the wrappings and pulled back the tissue paper to find…

…a grill brush!

“Since you said the wildfire burned your barbecue grill, I thought I’d get you a brush for when you get another,” he explained. I didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t at all what I’d expected. (Visions of a vacuum cleaner, skillet and stepladder for Christmas danced through my head.)

But my momma taught me to be polite. No. Matter. What. So I recovered from my surprise and thanked him profusely. “It’s perfect,” I said. “Just what I’ll be needing!”

Then out we went, down the steps and towards his truck. He opened the door for me as he always did, but stopped me in mid-step.

There was a big white propane gas bottle on the floorboard in front of the seat. “Wait a minute; let me get that out of your way,” he said, “I’ll just put it in the back of the truck — along with the REST of your present.”

He led me around to the bed of the truck and opened the cab topper to reveal a HUGE box. Inside the box was — you guessed it —a grill! A big, bright, shiny brand new grill!

I couldn’t contain myself! I was so floored by his generosity that I jumped up and gave him a big kiss. I almost knocked him over and think I surprised him as much as he had surprised me! My gosh, I would never have expected that kind of a gift. We’d only been dating a month or so.

I was glowing as we went in for dinner. It was a wonderful evening. We talked, laughed, held hands — the typical lovey-dovey stuff you do when you’re dating. (Being a Mom, I wasn’t even tempted to nudge his glass away from the edge of the table or cut up his steak.)

Then he looked deep into my eyes and said, “Laurie (my family calls me Laurie), do you think it’s possible for two people to know it’s right so soon in the relationship?” I sucked in my breath and thought, “Wow! Did I just hear what I thought I heard?”

But he was sincere. There was no joking around with that question. “Yes,” I said. “I’ve heard of people who have only known each other a few weeks and knew it was the real thing. And they’ve lasted. I do think it’s possible.” Goosebumps came over me and I thought, maybe this IS the real thing!

A full moon was out by the time we got back to my place. We sat on the front porch under its light and talked for hours. I decided to share parts of my “backstory” so I wouldn’t be wasting my time (or his). I was nervous as I told him more of my past, health issues and responsibilities, but he pulled my feet up onto his lap, leaned forward and said, “Is that all ya got?”

My gosh, this man was a saint. Not that I’m an ax murderer or anything, but we’ve all got baggage. I had decided not to hide anything, so if he stuck around it was because he really loved me, warts and all.

I was getting the sense he was starting to feel that way.

But that wasn’t all. There were more surprises to come!