Stories

How I Got My Horse Fix on Poncha Pass

I’ve been horse crazy since I was a kid. With long blonde hair, I pretended to be a Palomino. And my bedroom was full of plastic horse figurines. They were collectables, ya know.

When we went to our Camp as kids, my sisters and I would gallop stick horses through the pines, whinnying and tossing our manes. We’d even snort, paw the ground and rear up on our hind legs. I found my horse fix any way I could get it!

That’s why it was such a treat when my sister, during a recent family reunion, asked me to go horseback riding. We drove up to Poncha Pass near Salida, Colorado and pulled in at Granite Mountain Outfitters. A nice lady named Sue is the owner.

It’s been years since I’ve ridden. In fact, the last time it was mosquito season and we herded cows through the sage and all over the ranch. I couldn’t sit down for days.

Anyway, we told them about our riding experience and my sister was paired with a quarter horse named LeRoy. I ended up with Houdini…

…a mule.

Now, before you go and get all judgmental on me, you should know that Houdini was one talented critter, fully capable of opening any gate. In fact, we were told that Houdini recently opened seven gates and let out so many cattle it took hours to round them all up.

So I swung into the saddle and sat proudly upon my mule.

And off we went with our personable guide, Andrew.

Just us and the great outdoors! We rode through meadows with wildflowers, tall stands of aspen and an old logging camp. No stress and no noise.

Except for my mule. He liked to groan. He did it trudging up the hills and he did it when “nature called.” No braying. No snorting. Just groaning.

But he was sure-footed as a goat.

When we got to the mountain top, our guide took pictures of us from every angle.

Then my sister’s horse took a selfie.

On our way down, there was more groaning. This time it was from me.

“Um, Andrew? How much longer till we’re back at the ranch?”

Bones in my bottom were competing for attention with the spectacular scenery. The late afternoon sun lit up a few deer butts on a distant hill, like spotlights in the sage.

Everything glowed. I wanted to bottle it.

Then all at once, our two and a half hours were over. I dismounted my mighty steed and dropped to the ground with legs quivering like jello.

It was one of the most memorable rides of my life. The good folks at Granite Mountain Outfitters gave is a little piece of heaven that day.

I got my horse fix — on a mule.

And I tossed my mane a little as we drove away.

Moving Out of the Townhouse and Into a Cabin

I can’t think of anything more fun than moving. (Did I just write that out loud?) It’s especially “enjoyable” when you’ve been in one place for decades and accumulated lots of stuff — kid stuff, office stuff, hand-me-down stuff, garage sale stuff, family heirlooms and day to day necessities. Yup, we’d pared down before, shrinking from a monstrous Victorian money-trap to a much smaller abode. I was ready. I knew how to do it. I girded my loins. (Can you hear the Rocky theme song?)

I figured a week between the cabin closing and renters taking over our townhouse should be just about right. Seven days seemed like enough time to clean, drag out the dirty shag carpet, install tile and redo the hardwood floors. We had a schedule and everyone had a part to play. I was pretty impressed with my organizational prowess.

Then they changed the closing date.

All of a sudden, my carefully laid plan looked like the candy conveyor belt scene from I Love Lucy. Now, we’d close late on Friday and renters would move in on Sunday

The race was on! Once I had those keys in my hot little hands, I skedaddled out to the woods and unlocked doors for the flooring guy. Back at the townhouse, a few hardy souls appeared, enticed by the offer of pizza and beer. They filled and stacked towers of boxes that swayed to the sounds of My Life Would Suck Without You by Kelly Clarkson. Cats ran for cover and cowered behind the dryer. We worked until midnight knowing our efforts would surely make the next day so much easier.

Morning dawned, full of hope and promise. I got the donuts, commandeered a truck and lurched my way back to the townhouse, expecting to see hordes of eager volunteers. Two lone relatives greeted me at the door, then turned their attention to the donuts.

Where WAS everyone? The clock was ticking and that truck was empty! Turns out, it WAS a great day for a friend to treat most of my movers to a leisurely breakfast. I ask you, what better way to ease into the day?

By Noon our gang was working like a well-oiled machine. We packed and loaded, hour after hour. But without knowing how or why, stuff magically reappeared in closets and corners we knew we’d already cleared. It was as if we were bailing water from a sinking ship. When would it EVER END, I cried in dismay!

Meanwhile, out in the woods…

Boxes were emptied into the dark and dirty recesses of a one-car garage. Furniture littered the driveway and deck. Only once did an inconveniently placed tree interfere with the truck’s front bumper. Slowly, the clutter diminished at one site and rose at the other, like bubbles foaming from a pot of pea soup.

Hungry and tired, we gathered for pizza under the pines. The piano was in the kitchen and the couch was outside by the front door. The only thing missing were a few corncob pipes, a jug of moonshine and a banjo.

As dark descended, my trusty movers drove off and I was left with the cats. They crept from one room to the next, lurking around corners and moaning like tortured souls. They jumped up on window sills, then leaped to the floor and took off like something was after them.

Those windows were big and bare, so I hurried to drape them before who-knows-what discovered I was in there — all alone. I tore open cartons and pulled out one blanket after another. Thankful to find a hammer and nails, my anxiety level dropped with every window I covered.

Time to sleep, but where were the rest of our blankets? I would freeze rather than take them down from the windows. So I curled up under some throw rugs, dozing and waking to the moans of two neurotic cats. They wouldn’t shut up; it sounded like a horror movie. I heard every sound that night.

And I kept telling myself, “Well, it WAS you who wanted a cabin in the woods.”

But soon morning dawned. Again, full of hope and promise.

I opened the front door to the smell of piney air and sunlight streaming through the trees. Dew glistened on the grass. The deer scampered about. Bluebirds swooped down and draped ribbons through my hair.

(I get carried away sometimes.)

If you’ve ever moved, you know how nice it feels to have the packing and stacking part over and done with. Then you sit back, look around at all those boxes screaming for attention, roll up your sleeves and…

…pour yourself a big glass of wine!

What Went Thump in the Night

One of the best parts of going to Camp was sleeping in the big bunkbeds Grandpa built into the walls of the cabin. But one night we had more excitement than we bargained for!

There were two big beds downstairs and two upstairs, along with a couple of twin sized. Those beds were so big you could have one heckuva slumber party in them. They also made great trampolines!

One night we girls decided to sleep in the upstairs bunkbed. As the sun started to set, we climbed the stairs into the dusky room lined with knotty pine paneling. The bed was built into the corner of the room and took up two walls. We clambered on in but rather than sleep, we launched into telling our scariest ghost stories.

Mom, Dad and the boys were trying to sleep downstairs. We must have been making a lot of noise, because Mom yelled up to us. “You girls stop talking or I’m going to have to send your Father up there!”

So we quieted down, laying still and silent for a while, listening to each other breathe.

Then we heard the noise!

Scratching and thumping, it would go on for a few seconds, then it would stop. Did it come from the closet or inside the walls?

“Did you hear that?”

“Uh yeah. Did you do it?”

“Um, no!”

We weren’t sure WHERE it was coming from, but we didn’t like it one bit!

We started yelling, “Daddy, there’s something up here!” Dad came bounding up the stairs. He shined a flashlight all around the room trying to see where the sound was coming from.

By then we were screaming, “The picture! The picture! It’s over there!”

We pointed towards the picture on the far wall. It was jumping around. It lifted and fell like it had a life of its own. And it DID!

By now the boys had run up the stairs to see what was going on. Still more screaming from us girls but the boys were louder. “Get it Dad! Get it!”

Dad grabbed a broom and lifted a corner of the picture frame up and away from the wall. Down crashed the picture…

…and out flew a bat!

It fluttered back and forth around the room, darting here and there, ducking and out-maneuvering Dad’s broom. Now ALL of us were screaming, jumping up and down and flailing our arms to fight off the softball-sized creature. Dad tried to hit it, but he kept missing. That bat was quick!

Finally Dad opened the door which led to the roof, hoping the bat would find its way out. After a few more laps around the room and a few more swats with the broom, the bat flew out into the night.

“We’re so glad you got rid of that thing!” said a sister.

“We should have kept it, Dad!” said a brother.

Once the glass from the broken picture was swept up, back to bed we went. It took us a long time to settle down after that. We were scared at first, but now we were giggling.

Mom didn’t think it was so funny. “Settle down girls,” she yelled up at us. Then Dad added one of his famous phrases, “You kids go to sleep now. Tomorrow’s another day!”

Lollypop Farm

In Rochester NY where I grew up, the local branch of the Humane Society was affectionately known as Lollypop Farm. We kids loved to visit there because it had a barnyard with goats and sheep we could feed and pet.

It was where you went to adopt an animal. It was also where you took the pets you could not keep. We always wondered about Lollypop Farm. Did all the pets there get adopted? Mom and Dad said they did.

There were six of us kids. At one point, Mom and Dad had five under five. We didn’t have a lot of pets ‘cause my folks had their hands full as it was. But with enough pleading, a few critters found their way into our home. I never got the pony I wanted, but we scored with a few smaller animals.

Mugsy was my brother’s apricot poodle. He was cute, cuddly and very portable. We took Mugsy with us on our trip to Cape Cod in a big Winnebago motor home. He liked to lay on the long, wide dashboard and survey the countryside. When my Dad made a turn, Mugsy slid smoothly across the vinyl dash to the driver’s side.

But Mugsy didn’t like to be left behind. Mom would come home from grocery shopping and find that sweet little dog on their bed getting far too frisky with her decorative pillows. The last straw was when he wet all over Mom’s brand new living room drapes.

Mugsy went to Lollypop Farm.

Trixie was the cat from hell. She was super hyper from the moment we brought her home. She’d run loops around the tops of our living room furniture. She had wild eyes and would show her sharp teeth when she panted. We were all afraid of her. My youngest brother still sports a scar down his face from that demon cat.

Trixie went to Lollypop Farm.

I had a big, beautiful white male rabbit. We kept him in a fenced spot in the backyard in the summer. In the winter he stayed in the garage in a cage. He would get so excited to see us! If we walked close to his cage, he’d run around in circles and display his manliness. That didn’t bode well for the bottom of my Dad’s dress pants.

It wasn’t long before the rabbit went to Lollypop Farm too.

My other brother’s long haired guinea pig was so funny! We called him Jerry and he looked like a little mop on batteries. He was black with streaks of caramel colored hair that reached to the ground. We’d put him on the floor in the middle of the kitchen just to watch him scurry to the corner and hide under the cabinets. He made us laugh!

Jerry’s cage was in a basement room where Mom worked on her crafts. After church one day we all came home to find him stretched out in his cage. My brother said, “Mom, something is wrong with Jerry. He doesn’t look too good. And he’s not moving.” We soon held a burial ceremony for Jerry and laid him to rest somewhere in the back yard.

Months later, Mom was in her craft room spray painting one of her creations and she noticed a warning on the side of the can. “May harm small animals.” She felt terrible. Poor Jerry never made it to Lollipop Farm.

My parents are very compassionate people. Truly. They love animals. My Mom keeps the birds fat and happy. She stuffs peanut butter into the holes Dad drilled into a birch log and she hangs it under the front porch. But Mom and Dad both battle with the squirrels. They’ve tried every which way to keep them out of the bird feeders and the flower pots. Dad finally took drastic measures and bought a cage. Once it caught a mad-as-a-wet-hen victim, he’d relocate it to the park at the end of their street. For every squirrel he moved to the park, four or five new ones appeared back up at the house. One squirrel nested in a spruce outside their back patio door, so now they have a whole “fam damily” of squirrels.

Next stop – Lollypop Farm!

Horse Crazy Gal Finally Gets a Pony

How many of us will admit to being a little horse crazy as a kid? When I was a young ‘un, I lined the shelves in my bedroom with lots of little plastic horse statues, hoping one day I’d get to own a real one.

When my parents took us six kids to a winter festival, we sat on a sled with hay bales pulled by a team of huge draft horses. I remember telling my mom, “I love the smell of horses!”

(I’m the one in red)

My sisters and I would pretend to be Palominos, Appaloosas, Arabians and Mustangs. We’d run through the woods, whinnying and pawing the air with our “hooves” to prove just how wild and untamed we really were.

I dreamed of having an office one day like Wilbur on TV. His horse, Mr. Ed, would hang his head over the stall door that separated the barn from the architect’s place of business. Ah, the best of both worlds!

Then I grew up. I rode whenever a chance occurred, took a few riding lessons and vowed one day I’d have my own horse. But the time never came. I got married and the kids came along, which took most of our resources to keep up with. And later on when I bought the cabin, there wasn’t enough room to board a horse on that little spot in the woods.

But my new boyfriend had owned a horse. And he had built himself a small barn to keep “Sonny” in.

So early on in our dating adventures, he invited me over for dinner and gave me a tour of the place. He had a saddle in the basement, horse blankets on a stand and ropes on the wall, just like a real cowboy!

He even called me “Darlin’” with that country kind of drawl. (Every time he calls me “Darlin” it gives me goosebumps!)

But there was more! “C’mon out to the barn,” he said. “I’ve got something to show you.”

He slid open the door and sunshine streamed across the dirt floor to the hay bales stacked against the rough wooden panels.

“I know you’ve been hankerin’ for a horse, so I got you one.”

And there it was, with sunlight bathing its long brown mane and a white blaze across its forehead. It stood there placid, silent and serene and stared deep into my eyes.

My very own stick pony!

He urged me to take it for a ride, but I knew I was too much of a novice to do it justice. So I just took it home and it shares my office. Just like Wilbur and Mr. Ed!

Save the Plants!

Throw out a plant? Never!

In our family, we do everything in our power to save them: repot, fertilize, move it to another window, take it outdoors or bring it in. We take a cutting and put it in water hoping it will grow roots. Then we can start a new plant all over again!

My brother has it bad. He collected a jungle of plants over the years, some of which grew up to be taller than most in my family. He fusses over his plants more than I fuss over my writing. He farmed his babies out to all his siblings for care-taking duty.

I was gifted with his schefflera (Umbrella plant), which grew so leggy, I gave it a haircut. Unfortunately the plant didn’t survive. My mom felt so sorry for my brother she bought him another one. I think she’s feeding his habit.

My brother also had a tall cactus which his dog chewed into bits. Mom rescued the pieces and now she has lots of these plants growing in her house and on the deck.

The biggest one is three feet tall. I don’t like cactus so it was easy for me to resist.

Dad’s office has been home to the biggest, ugliest plant in the entire household. You couldn’t pay me to adopt that one. Its days are numbered though. It’s bad if Mom plans to get rid of it. She’s afraid it’ll reach over and grab the nearest person.

Mom has so many plants in her gardens that it’s a major production if hail is predicted. And we get a lot of hail! Dad built a contraption with plastic sheeting so she can cover her plants when the skies darken. It’s like Mission Impossible trying to cover all her flowers.

Dad likes to cut things back. He pruned their corkscrew willow almost to the ground and put a bucket over it. He wanted to open up the view of Pikes Peak from their dining room window. But Mom noticed green shoots growing out from under the bucket. “Just a little fertilizer and water should do the trick,” she laughed. (Bwahahaha!) Now her corkscrew willow is ten feet tall and Dad is under strict orders not to touch it again!

Mom asked me recently, “Laurie, I’ve been rooting some plants. Would you like one?” She’s so sneaky! She can’t find places to put all her plants as the weather turns colder, and she can’t bear to throw out the babies. So she pawns them off on all her kids. Last year she gave me a small spider plant and it grew so fast, I split it into three parts. And here she is trying to give me more. She’s devilishly clever.

I’m careful about plants I bring into the house. I hate those pesky little gnats that lay eggs in the potting soil. That’s the only thing that’ll make me toss a plant. I’ve tried everything to kill them (the bugs, not the plants): soapy water, “green” insecticides and even rap music. Nothing seems to work.

Last year I had tons of day lilies and a beautiful clematis with purple flowers. But something ate all the blossoms. I suspect it was those adorable deer and rabbits. Or maybe the moles are to blame. They’re all evil. Evil, I say! So this year I told my husband, “I’ll fix those pesky varmints,” and planted lots of marigolds. There isn’t a critter around that will eat marigolds.

But now it’s like a scene from Sophie’s Choice. Decisions, decisions. Which plants will I bring indoors and which will die a horrid death during our wicked winter? My geraniums are beautiful right now, sportin’ a bevy of peach colored blossoms. I want to save them all but we don’t have the room.

It’ll be different at our new house. We’re almost done with the plans and hope to dig dirt in the Spring. (My husband calls it soil; remember he’s an engineer.) We’ve made sure there are wide window sills for all my plants. And I’ve already transplanted “hens and chicks” from our property into pots rather than lose them to the jaws of construction equipment. Once the house is complete, I’ll transplant them back to grow and prosper. They will live to see another day!

Yes, I’m a lost cause when it comes to plants. It’s in my genes. Dad grew up on a truck farm and Mom was in the local Garden Club. My sister has a spider plant the size of an elephant in her powder room. My other sister has a beautiful patio covered in flowers, bright foliage and mini-lights. My little brother has an eight foot ficus in his house.

We are all plant lovers!

Wild and Crazy Road Trip

Family road trips bring back fond memories, don’t they? Everyone would pile in the car and snuggle up together for hours on end. It was a bonding experience with our sweaty little arms and legs stuck to each other on those vinyl seat covers. Why, when I was a kid, we couldn’t wait for the chance to leave our friends and favorite TV shows for hours of uninterrupted time with sisters and brothers. Yes, it’s true. I’m not kidding.

So, when we moved from northern California to upstate New York and I learned I’d have to drive it alone with the kids, I jumped for joy. Why, what better way to solidify that parent/child relationship than four days in a Sprint in July with no air-conditioning? Yep, keep ‘em cooped up in a car so they have no choice but to listen to you. Nothing but 2600 miles of open road and four days of togetherness!

Somewhere in Utah we ran into road work. Two lanes gradually merged into one, squeezing us into a narrow channel that was blocked on both sides by concrete barriers. It was unsettling. There was nowhere to go except forward. And it went on and on for miles. Thankfully the kids were quiet and calm, so I could focus on keeping us off the walls. Just like a bobsled team, we swiftly sped down and around, leaning into the curves.

All of a sudden, my eldest let out a blood curdling scream and I nearly jumped out of my skin. “Mom! Get it off me! Get it OFF me!

Panicked, I darted my eyes from the chute up ahead to the rear view mirror. What was terrorizing my child? What could I do to make it stop?

But in the reflection, all I could see was a ginormous 18-wheeler. He was right on our tail, bearing down on us. He was close. Scary close. He blasted his horn. I couldn’t see the driver’s face. For a moment, I felt like Dennis Weaver in Steven Spielberg’s movie Duel!

MOMMMMMMY! GETITOFFMEEEE!” My six year old’s lungs were piercing my eardrums. The baby was crying. My middle son was yelling, “Bug Mom. BUG!” (The last time he did that, he was inches from a tarantula.)

Pressure. What to do? What to do?

There was nothing I could do (They say the only time a woman feels totally helpless is when her fingernail polish is wet. I beg to differ!)

So there we were with 40 tons of metal cozying up to my back bumper and a car full of screaming kids, barreling down a concrete runway with no escape. The bug played a starring role, but like the driver of that truck, I still hadn’t seen its face.

With nerves of steel, I tightened my grip on the wheel and yelled for everyone to calm down. (Yes, you know that worked, right?)

Then the concrete barriers gave way and we made our escape down the exit ramp and onto a wide and welcoming shoulder. Not a moment to lose, I threw open the door, sprang from my seat and rushed to the aid of my eldest.

It was about the biggest bug I’d ever seen outside a movie theater! It had a huge body with long, waving antennae and at least 18 legs. It had crawled up his shirt and onto his neck. He was paralyzed in fear. Hesitating for only a moment, I did what any good mother would do.

I asked my four year old to shoo it away!

Ten Days at Twenty Below

I DO know what cold weather is. Stationed in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula with the Air Force, we plugged our cars in at night and measured snow by the telephone poles. We occasionally rode a snow machine to work. (Dedicated to the mission, we got there one way or another!)

We were hardy people, I tell ya. We thought nothing of temps that made our truck seats freeze like stone and threaten to crack. We took survival gear along when we went to the grocery store, just in case. Yep, Nanook of the North had nothing on us Yoopers!

So, it tickled me when a family friend in the Forest warned me about winter on the Palmer Divide. “Better hold onto that townhouse, just in case you can’t handle it up here and want to move back to town,” he advised.

Really. Well, he didn’t know I was one mighty determined lady, not easily scared off by a little snow and Colorado cold. Living in this cabin was a dream come true. I gazed through the pines at aspens shimmering in the balmy fall breeze and replied, “There is NO way. We’re here to stay!” (I tend to burst into thyme when I get my dander up.)

Then the weather got cold – really cold! It dropped to 20 below and stayed there, day after day. We stuffed newspapers into cracks in the logs and hung blankets over doors to block out the frigid wind. I opened the faucets a bit so they’d drip. (There I go with the rhyming again.) We fired up the wood stove and soon we were snug as a bug in that proverbial rug.

I thought we were ready for whatever Mother Nature would throw at us. But how come nobody told me to put a heater down in that concrete well pump ten yards from the house? I never quite knew what was down there. Covered by a concrete lid and far too heavy for this little lady to lift, I assumed whatever it was would work just fine without our help. (Never make assumptions.)

Then, slowly, things began to shut down. Faucets stopped dripping, the potty stopped flushing and our hot water furnace stopped heating. All of a sudden, I felt like Laura Ingalls Wilder, alone without Ma or Pa in a Little House in the Big Woods. Why, we didn’t even have a fiddle or harmonica on hand!

Day after day we endured these primitive conditions. No water for coffee, no showers, no laundry. Not even a drop for brushing your teeth. Then the high speed internet went out — that was the worst. Isolated from family and friends at the end of an impassable driveway and craving human contact, I wallowed through hip deep drifts just to wave to the snowplow drivers.

You’d think I would have been grateful when the weather warmed up. Now we heard water flowing. My heart swelled with joy as I rushed ‘round the cabin searching for that magical elixir, that life-giving moisture — source of all things squeaky clean and highly caffeinated. But none was to be found. T’was a mystery. Water, precious water, wherefore art thou?

Meanwhile, down in the crawl space…

Old steel pipes had met their match and given up the ghost in multiple locations. Water spewed in all directions, creating a scene that rivaled dancing fountains at the Bellagio Hotel.

Yes, now we had water.

I owe a great debt, many thanks and my firstborn child to Vince, who toiled and struggled to tame the ruptured pipes. He fixed the hot water furnace, installed shiny new parts and shared history of my cabin from his one-room schoolhouse days.

Those who live to be old and wise believe that what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. But as someone on Twitter once said, “It also gives you a lot of unhealthy coping mechanisms and a really dark sense of humor!”