About 30 minutes after my last post, I really began to see the sun shining through and now, I'm quite excited to be on my way to my grand adventure! Thanks y'all for your prayers.
love,
By His Grace
Saturday, November 17, 2007
5 PM Saturday night
And I'm feeling so sad. I'm really crying, just feeling so sad about leaving my husband and my home in less than 12 hours. We've had such a lovely 7 months or so here and now, this whole surgery thing seems to be interrupting that. I rely upon him for so many things and now, I'm leaving alone tomorrow on a journey that, well, yes, is scary.
I'm know I'm depositing into my health account, this surgery. That I will be healthier and able to enjoy our retirement later on. But right now, it feels like a huge, lonely step. I have to get ahold of myself.
This is where and when we lean upon the Lord the most, when we travel down that lonesome road devoid of our loved ones, the ones we depend upon.
I remember a little story my Dad used to tell about his being a young boy and walking home from town alone. It was night-time and dark, and as he climbed Barnard Hill, the moon created weird, mottled shadows on the road at his feet. He saw monsters in every shaded bush and looming birch. The prickles ran up and down his back and he kept looking over his shoulder to see if he was being followed. Suddenly, right above his head, an owl hooted very loud, and that little boy ran with all of his might toward the lamplight in the window of his home and safety.
His fear was so strong that it was remembered vividly when that boy was 80 years old.
I feel like that youngster walking that road tonight. But I'm not alone and I know that. Not only do I have many friends and many prayers being said for me, I have the Lord holding my Hand.
I probably won't be writing here for a couple of weeks, my gentle readers. When I do, I'll recount all about the surgery and all the blessings that befell me on this trip!
God bless you all.
With love.
I'm know I'm depositing into my health account, this surgery. That I will be healthier and able to enjoy our retirement later on. But right now, it feels like a huge, lonely step. I have to get ahold of myself.
This is where and when we lean upon the Lord the most, when we travel down that lonesome road devoid of our loved ones, the ones we depend upon.
I remember a little story my Dad used to tell about his being a young boy and walking home from town alone. It was night-time and dark, and as he climbed Barnard Hill, the moon created weird, mottled shadows on the road at his feet. He saw monsters in every shaded bush and looming birch. The prickles ran up and down his back and he kept looking over his shoulder to see if he was being followed. Suddenly, right above his head, an owl hooted very loud, and that little boy ran with all of his might toward the lamplight in the window of his home and safety.
His fear was so strong that it was remembered vividly when that boy was 80 years old.
I feel like that youngster walking that road tonight. But I'm not alone and I know that. Not only do I have many friends and many prayers being said for me, I have the Lord holding my Hand.
I probably won't be writing here for a couple of weeks, my gentle readers. When I do, I'll recount all about the surgery and all the blessings that befell me on this trip!
God bless you all.
With love.
Friday, November 16, 2007
SJP, final installment
In an ad for Garnier skin products, Sarah Jessica Parker says, "This is good, so you better pay attention.
In song and story-writing, that was what is known as a "hook." Sorry if I disappointed all of your SJP fans!
This IS a big, good thing I'm about to tell you, however. It was 1978, a time of poverty and struggle for me. Yet a time when there was much to be thankful for, even the closeness of nature and the absence of distractions.
I felt at that time that I always had some sort of faith. I remember one time working with my chainsaw in a pile of "slash," the branches left over when a tree is felled and which have been thrown into a pile. I was out alone cutting some firewood out of such a pile and the gas cap vibrated loose and fell off, down into the pile of branches.
I was so worried that I'd never find that proverbial needle in the haystack and after looking and looking for an hour, I finally prayed, "Dear God, show me the gas cap to the chainsaw, please." And I opened my eyes and looked right down at my feet, where the black cap was lying.
As I read that book that had been left in my mailbox, I not only learned more about Watergate and the actions of Chuck Colson, but I became aware of truths that had eluded me for my life up until that point. I don't swallow things hook, line and sinker, I'm something of a skeptic at heart,
so I would take the book (Born Again) and where chapters and verses were quoted, I would look them up in the only Bible I owned, a sort of teenage version called, "The Way."
I underlined scriptures and highlighted whole paragraphs. I found everything that Colson was saying to be sustained in the book which I considered special. And I remember that I felt surprised. For all of my church-going as a child, all those summers spent at Vacation Bible School, the songs sung in junior choir, I simply had no understanding of who Jesus was and why He died on a cross. I was 28 years old, and hearkened back to when I was 11 and aspired to become a minister one day. I read much of the Bible that year. But it was just a good story as far as I was concerned.
As I read Colson's Watergate accounts and I cross-referenced his writings with the simple version of the Bible I had, I came to understand that Jesus was the Son of Almighty God. That God cannot look upon sin and no sin can enter heaven. That we are all "sinners and come short of the glory of God."
Sitting at that rugged, picnic-style table in our hand-hewn cabin nestled in the midst of a lodgepole pine forest in northern Idaho, with no preachers preaching...no altar calls...no lyrical music...I had nothing but the sounds of the night and my own heart and conscience to listen to. That and the pure word contained on the pages of annointed books. I don't know if I was searching, but God sure searched and found me.
With intellectual reasoning, I tried to scoff at what I'd read. I tried to find failings and contradictions. Yet every single part of the "plan" made perfect sense. And in the end, I could not refute it.
As Josh McDowell wrote in More than a Carpenter, what will we do with Jesus? We cannot say that He was a good man, or one of the prophets, or one of the ways to God. Because that is not what He said He was.
Jesus said that He is the Way, the Truth and the Life. "No man cometh to the Father but by me." So, Jesus was either exactly what and who He said He was...or He was lying...or He was a crazy. Lord, Liar or Lunatic. We can't have it any other way. We must decide. And all of my own intellectual ability and sensibility directed to me to a decision that was made almost 30 years ago and from which I have never wavered since.
I knew I needed to make a conscious pact with God about this, though. Throughout the Bible, it is written of our need to speak with God and to literally "choose" him. To choose the path we intend to take. We never would get very far down a road if we did not make choices on which way to turn, which fork in the road to take.
I knew what I needed to do, but, being a drama queen at heart, I decided it would be on my terms at a time of my choosing. I'd wait for a beautiful Fall day, when the tamarack were golden and the Aspen were glowing on the hills. I'd walk out on the ridge, sit on an outcropping and spill out my heart to the Lord. I'd make a sweeping epic, a huge memory, just like a woman planning her wedding day complete with tiered cake and organ music.
But, that "director's" day just never came...and I always was busy and kept putting it off. Maybe it started raining for a spell. Whatever it was, that "picture perfect" day never cropped up.
During this time, I had a couple of horses in to train and one was a sorrel mare named Sandy.
She was tied up in a stall in the barn on the hill. And on that same day, I was down near where our trucks were parked, talking with my husband as he "mechanic-ed" on one of our rigs.
As all couples do at times, we began to argue over something. I don't remember what the argument was about (but I do remember I was right!) but, in some way, my feelings had been hurt. I ran up the path that led to the horse barn, braids flying out and down my back, and ran in to where Sandy was tied. I cried into her long, rust-colored mane and, sobbing, I said aloud, "Dear Lord. I've really screwed up my life. I've tried to run it, but look where it's gotten me? I can't do anything right. I'm giving it to you. I believe that You are God in the flesh and that You died for my sins. If I were the only person alive, You would have died for me. And so, I'm giving my life to you."
To paraphrase Sarah Jessica Parker in that mindless TV ad: "This was BIG." I had ZERO idea how big it was, that simple prayer I prayed. I only knew that when I had tried to control my life, I only messed things up, no matter how good my intentions. I knew I needed help. And I couldn't wait a minute longer because I was at the bottom of the pit. Right where God wanted me.
A few months later, my husband prayed the same prayer and experienced a change in his life, as well. This change is not an over-night process, it's an evolution that is still taking place almost 30 years later. But if I can convince you of one thing, it would be that this is something real...big...tangible...and very, very good.
And this same Lord, this same Faith will carry me through the next year as I journey through surgeries, a halo for several months, severe pain, loneliness of having surgeries 3000 miles away from my husband, long recoveries, reliance upon strangers, angels and friends. This God will guide and comfort me all of my days on this earth, through even the valley of the shadow of death. He will never leave nor forsake me, of that I can be sure. He hasn't done so in the last 30 years.
Jesus is, in very deed, The Way, The Truth and the Life. He is the Door only through which we may come to God, the Father and to Heaven. And all else pales next to His Glory. Our pains, our sufferings, our losses and our wins, our trophies, our hobbies, passions, even horses, our loves and broken hearts, our awards and recognitions and our broken bones are nothing compared to Almighty God. He is at the very core of who I am and who you are. He searched for me like the shepherd goes hunting through the cold night for the one lost sheep. And He will search for you.
postscript: Several years later, while visiting my 70 yr old father, he asked me to tell him what the song, "Amazing Grace" meant. I told him the Good News that Jesus was searching for him, that He'd died long ago on that Cross at Calvary to atone for his, my Dad's, sins. That he could have the promise of eternal life with God by asking for forgiveness of those sins and by giving his life to his Savior.
Then I point-blank asked my father, " Have you ever done this?"
He looked me in the eye and answered honestly, "No," even though I knew he went to church every Sunday.
I asked, "Do you want to do this now, with me?"
He said sincerely, "Yes. I'm ready for it."
We knelt together on the floor of the living room of the house my father had built in 1947. I had been brought home from the hospital to that house and I lived there until I left home at the age of 19, heading for my own life and future out West. I held his hands and we together we prayed, "Dear Lord Jesus. I believe You are the Son of God and that You died for my sins. Please forgive me of my wrongdoing. I give You my life. In Your precious Name, Amen."
I gave my Dad that copy of the Bible that God had used to bring me into the fold. "The Way." With all the verses I loved underlined in various shades of ink and highlighter marker pens. I prefer the good, old King James version of the Bible, but God can bless and use any version. My Dad read from that teenaged version...and after he died at the age of 80, my stepmother gave that Bible back to me and I have it still. And I know my beloved father is waiting for me "on the other side."
And finally, God gave me that dramatic memory I was seeking, of a father and his child kneeling together on a thread bare carpet in a little cottage of a house. Planning our future.
In song and story-writing, that was what is known as a "hook." Sorry if I disappointed all of your SJP fans!
This IS a big, good thing I'm about to tell you, however. It was 1978, a time of poverty and struggle for me. Yet a time when there was much to be thankful for, even the closeness of nature and the absence of distractions.
I felt at that time that I always had some sort of faith. I remember one time working with my chainsaw in a pile of "slash," the branches left over when a tree is felled and which have been thrown into a pile. I was out alone cutting some firewood out of such a pile and the gas cap vibrated loose and fell off, down into the pile of branches.
I was so worried that I'd never find that proverbial needle in the haystack and after looking and looking for an hour, I finally prayed, "Dear God, show me the gas cap to the chainsaw, please." And I opened my eyes and looked right down at my feet, where the black cap was lying.
As I read that book that had been left in my mailbox, I not only learned more about Watergate and the actions of Chuck Colson, but I became aware of truths that had eluded me for my life up until that point. I don't swallow things hook, line and sinker, I'm something of a skeptic at heart,
so I would take the book (Born Again) and where chapters and verses were quoted, I would look them up in the only Bible I owned, a sort of teenage version called, "The Way."
I underlined scriptures and highlighted whole paragraphs. I found everything that Colson was saying to be sustained in the book which I considered special. And I remember that I felt surprised. For all of my church-going as a child, all those summers spent at Vacation Bible School, the songs sung in junior choir, I simply had no understanding of who Jesus was and why He died on a cross. I was 28 years old, and hearkened back to when I was 11 and aspired to become a minister one day. I read much of the Bible that year. But it was just a good story as far as I was concerned.
As I read Colson's Watergate accounts and I cross-referenced his writings with the simple version of the Bible I had, I came to understand that Jesus was the Son of Almighty God. That God cannot look upon sin and no sin can enter heaven. That we are all "sinners and come short of the glory of God."
Sitting at that rugged, picnic-style table in our hand-hewn cabin nestled in the midst of a lodgepole pine forest in northern Idaho, with no preachers preaching...no altar calls...no lyrical music...I had nothing but the sounds of the night and my own heart and conscience to listen to. That and the pure word contained on the pages of annointed books. I don't know if I was searching, but God sure searched and found me.
With intellectual reasoning, I tried to scoff at what I'd read. I tried to find failings and contradictions. Yet every single part of the "plan" made perfect sense. And in the end, I could not refute it.
As Josh McDowell wrote in More than a Carpenter, what will we do with Jesus? We cannot say that He was a good man, or one of the prophets, or one of the ways to God. Because that is not what He said He was.
Jesus said that He is the Way, the Truth and the Life. "No man cometh to the Father but by me." So, Jesus was either exactly what and who He said He was...or He was lying...or He was a crazy. Lord, Liar or Lunatic. We can't have it any other way. We must decide. And all of my own intellectual ability and sensibility directed to me to a decision that was made almost 30 years ago and from which I have never wavered since.
I knew I needed to make a conscious pact with God about this, though. Throughout the Bible, it is written of our need to speak with God and to literally "choose" him. To choose the path we intend to take. We never would get very far down a road if we did not make choices on which way to turn, which fork in the road to take.
I knew what I needed to do, but, being a drama queen at heart, I decided it would be on my terms at a time of my choosing. I'd wait for a beautiful Fall day, when the tamarack were golden and the Aspen were glowing on the hills. I'd walk out on the ridge, sit on an outcropping and spill out my heart to the Lord. I'd make a sweeping epic, a huge memory, just like a woman planning her wedding day complete with tiered cake and organ music.
But, that "director's" day just never came...and I always was busy and kept putting it off. Maybe it started raining for a spell. Whatever it was, that "picture perfect" day never cropped up.
During this time, I had a couple of horses in to train and one was a sorrel mare named Sandy.
She was tied up in a stall in the barn on the hill. And on that same day, I was down near where our trucks were parked, talking with my husband as he "mechanic-ed" on one of our rigs.
As all couples do at times, we began to argue over something. I don't remember what the argument was about (but I do remember I was right!) but, in some way, my feelings had been hurt. I ran up the path that led to the horse barn, braids flying out and down my back, and ran in to where Sandy was tied. I cried into her long, rust-colored mane and, sobbing, I said aloud, "Dear Lord. I've really screwed up my life. I've tried to run it, but look where it's gotten me? I can't do anything right. I'm giving it to you. I believe that You are God in the flesh and that You died for my sins. If I were the only person alive, You would have died for me. And so, I'm giving my life to you."
To paraphrase Sarah Jessica Parker in that mindless TV ad: "This was BIG." I had ZERO idea how big it was, that simple prayer I prayed. I only knew that when I had tried to control my life, I only messed things up, no matter how good my intentions. I knew I needed help. And I couldn't wait a minute longer because I was at the bottom of the pit. Right where God wanted me.
A few months later, my husband prayed the same prayer and experienced a change in his life, as well. This change is not an over-night process, it's an evolution that is still taking place almost 30 years later. But if I can convince you of one thing, it would be that this is something real...big...tangible...and very, very good.
And this same Lord, this same Faith will carry me through the next year as I journey through surgeries, a halo for several months, severe pain, loneliness of having surgeries 3000 miles away from my husband, long recoveries, reliance upon strangers, angels and friends. This God will guide and comfort me all of my days on this earth, through even the valley of the shadow of death. He will never leave nor forsake me, of that I can be sure. He hasn't done so in the last 30 years.
Jesus is, in very deed, The Way, The Truth and the Life. He is the Door only through which we may come to God, the Father and to Heaven. And all else pales next to His Glory. Our pains, our sufferings, our losses and our wins, our trophies, our hobbies, passions, even horses, our loves and broken hearts, our awards and recognitions and our broken bones are nothing compared to Almighty God. He is at the very core of who I am and who you are. He searched for me like the shepherd goes hunting through the cold night for the one lost sheep. And He will search for you.
postscript: Several years later, while visiting my 70 yr old father, he asked me to tell him what the song, "Amazing Grace" meant. I told him the Good News that Jesus was searching for him, that He'd died long ago on that Cross at Calvary to atone for his, my Dad's, sins. That he could have the promise of eternal life with God by asking for forgiveness of those sins and by giving his life to his Savior.
Then I point-blank asked my father, " Have you ever done this?"
He looked me in the eye and answered honestly, "No," even though I knew he went to church every Sunday.
I asked, "Do you want to do this now, with me?"
He said sincerely, "Yes. I'm ready for it."
We knelt together on the floor of the living room of the house my father had built in 1947. I had been brought home from the hospital to that house and I lived there until I left home at the age of 19, heading for my own life and future out West. I held his hands and we together we prayed, "Dear Lord Jesus. I believe You are the Son of God and that You died for my sins. Please forgive me of my wrongdoing. I give You my life. In Your precious Name, Amen."
I gave my Dad that copy of the Bible that God had used to bring me into the fold. "The Way." With all the verses I loved underlined in various shades of ink and highlighter marker pens. I prefer the good, old King James version of the Bible, but God can bless and use any version. My Dad read from that teenaged version...and after he died at the age of 80, my stepmother gave that Bible back to me and I have it still. And I know my beloved father is waiting for me "on the other side."
And finally, God gave me that dramatic memory I was seeking, of a father and his child kneeling together on a thread bare carpet in a little cottage of a house. Planning our future.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Countdown to the BIG day`
Well, I have two more days 'til I leave for NY and my tethered cord surgery. Don't look in my guest room! It's piled with things that I think I need to take but which will never fit into the smallish suitcase I intend to take. I want to bake some cookies for my surgeon, I promised him some chocolate chip cookies...where to fit those in? Tomorrow, I'll go to Wally World and see if I can find a good cookie tin.
Someone suggested taking hard candy to give to nurses, perhaps to entice them into your room more often? I have lots of root beer barrels. I'll let you know if it works!
Today, I went to my cancer doctor as it was my six-month checkup for the monoclonal gammopathy I have. I was first scheduled for Nov. 23, but when I got my surgery date in NY, I called and switched my appt to today. This caused all kinds of confusion and a blood test was done, but it was the usual CBC type test, and all was pretty normal. I asked my oncologist about the protein levels (the markers for multiple myeloma that we are watching), as they have been creeping up this year. He seemed confused, and stepped out the door.
He came back and said that today, they had just done the usual test for pre surgery stuff and to see how the pamidronate treatments were doing. No proteins levels were taken. He said when I get back from surgery and feel up to it, to call and schedule those tests. Sigh....a patient has to work SO hard to just get things in order. If it was left to even the best doctors and nurses, things still seem to fall through the cracks. I'll have plenty of blood taken in NY...today's 70 mile trip was unnecessary.
Last Monday, I did have a pre-surgical ECHO done. I told the techician that I really need the report as soon as possible and needed the print out to fax to my surgical coordinator in NY. My medical asst. in my local PCP's office called today to tell me that the cardiologist was pissed off that I was making such demands, and that "I'd get the report when I got it." Period. But I guess he did tell my PCP that all was normal on the ECHO. Nice of him. What a butt head if you ask me. Once again, so much work on the part of the patient. It would be a great service and line of work to become a patient advocate, but I suppose the liability would just be too high. Something needs to be done.
After reading my last post and seeing the picture of me jumping Shadow, a good friend wrote to me that maybe when I'm better, I could get an old horse to brush and just "be with." She told me to "save that cookie." I do like that idea and at times I feel good, I do think about that. Maybe a large pony would be nice. Or, maybe I better go into mini horses so I'm not tempted to ride!
However, I did give the cookie to Quincy who relished it as much as he'd enjoyed so many others over the last few years in the horse stable.
Someone suggested taking hard candy to give to nurses, perhaps to entice them into your room more often? I have lots of root beer barrels. I'll let you know if it works!
Today, I went to my cancer doctor as it was my six-month checkup for the monoclonal gammopathy I have. I was first scheduled for Nov. 23, but when I got my surgery date in NY, I called and switched my appt to today. This caused all kinds of confusion and a blood test was done, but it was the usual CBC type test, and all was pretty normal. I asked my oncologist about the protein levels (the markers for multiple myeloma that we are watching), as they have been creeping up this year. He seemed confused, and stepped out the door.
He came back and said that today, they had just done the usual test for pre surgery stuff and to see how the pamidronate treatments were doing. No proteins levels were taken. He said when I get back from surgery and feel up to it, to call and schedule those tests. Sigh....a patient has to work SO hard to just get things in order. If it was left to even the best doctors and nurses, things still seem to fall through the cracks. I'll have plenty of blood taken in NY...today's 70 mile trip was unnecessary.
Last Monday, I did have a pre-surgical ECHO done. I told the techician that I really need the report as soon as possible and needed the print out to fax to my surgical coordinator in NY. My medical asst. in my local PCP's office called today to tell me that the cardiologist was pissed off that I was making such demands, and that "I'd get the report when I got it." Period. But I guess he did tell my PCP that all was normal on the ECHO. Nice of him. What a butt head if you ask me. Once again, so much work on the part of the patient. It would be a great service and line of work to become a patient advocate, but I suppose the liability would just be too high. Something needs to be done.
After reading my last post and seeing the picture of me jumping Shadow, a good friend wrote to me that maybe when I'm better, I could get an old horse to brush and just "be with." She told me to "save that cookie." I do like that idea and at times I feel good, I do think about that. Maybe a large pony would be nice. Or, maybe I better go into mini horses so I'm not tempted to ride!
However, I did give the cookie to Quincy who relished it as much as he'd enjoyed so many others over the last few years in the horse stable.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
cookie
This is a photo taken a couple of months before I broke my neck jumping another horse. This is my little cow-horse, Shadow, who really didn't like jumping (hence, the pin-backed ears) and liked to get it over with as quickly as possible (hence, I'm holding him back from rushing the fence). But he'd do it for me and he was very "handy."
My form is not perfect by any means. But Shadow's is kinda nifty, with those knees perfectly even in front and just a bit of rounding through the back, or "bascule." The horse barn in the background and the arenas are part of the horse complex we created on the last ranch where we worked. This area had been filled with garbage and trashed vehicles and pigpens. We cleaned it up and built a lovely equestrian center where I trained the horses and the riders. It was a lot of fun!
Today, it's starting to get colder. Heading out the door, I threw on a jacket and then looked for my gloves. Searching through coats in the closet, I found a single horse "cookie" in the pocket of my chore coat.
Grief comes at odd times, you know? Even when you think you are just looking for a pair of old gloves.
Today, it's starting to get colder. Heading out the door, I threw on a jacket and then looked for my gloves. Searching through coats in the closet, I found a single horse "cookie" in the pocket of my chore coat.
Grief comes at odd times, you know? Even when you think you are just looking for a pair of old gloves.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
SJP, part 3
I'm gettin' there, I promise...
Way up in the northwoods of Idaho, not much comes between you and the mirror.
You know what I mean? How sometimes, a cloud of smoke might blur that space so that who you are and who the world thinks you are seems to be the same thing? With fresh air and no reason to even comb your hair in the morning as your only influences, your mind either gets restless and bored or you start spending time with some pretty profound thoughts.
If I ever had a profound thought, I never felt I could lay claim to it. I knew myself too well for that. Even when I didn't know the word for it, inspiration was filling the air around me and when you are spoon-fed inspiring thoughts, how can you take credit for that?
I rode a lot of colts during that time, anything that someone would pay me to ride. I remember one Appaloosa stud, about 5 years old, never ridden. His name was Lucky and he had striking color patterns on his grey and white hide.
I brought him home in our truck and starting riding him down skid roads, occasionally spotting bear paw prints in the mud around the puddles from last night's rain. I didn't have fancy places to break a horse there, I didn't even have any flat ground. No round pen or arena. No barn. Just a hillside corral, ride him a little til he bends his head left or right when you pull on the reins of the bosal, then open the gate and don't come home til he's darn good and tired.
The owners wanted to come pick him up when I got done my 30 days on him, but I said, "If he ain't broke enough for me to ride him the 25 miles back to your ranch, then I'm cheatin' you." And so I have a faded color photo of me bundled up for cold weather on a big Appy stallion, ready to head out over the back roads and mountains to deliver him to his owners. I think that was the last ride he ever had. Sad when that happens. Lucky was a good boy.
One thing happened you'll never believe, but I swear it's true. I heard a Bigfoot one night, bellowing outside our cabin. I'll tell that story another time, but that night will stay with me forever and I've heard many other stories about Sasquatch encounters since then and they all have a commonality with my experience.
We had some folks we knew who lived a couple of miles away and they would leave books in my mailbox all winter long. When I got done reading them, I'd put them back into their mailbox with a note. Starved for entertainment, as Too Slim from Riders in the Sky would say, I'd read anything that was left in there.
One day, I rode the old draft mare out to the box. Astride her broad, bare back, it was like riding on a comforter. Her name was Belle and what an incredible logging horse she was. She'd skid a log down to the "deck" of logs without anyone driving her, just pull right up to the side of the deck like she knew just where those logs had to go and wait for someone to unhook her. Then she'd go back up that skid trail alone to the logger in the woods, ready to pull down another log, log after log, all day.
I leaned over and opened the box to find an interesting-looking book in there. "Born Again" by Chuck Colson. I sure wasn't interested in anything religious, but I knew that the whole Watergate thing had gone right over my head when it was in the news, and I was interested in learning about it. Besides, as I said, it was winter in the northwoods and I was hungry to read anything that I hadn't already read five times.
to be continued...
Way up in the northwoods of Idaho, not much comes between you and the mirror.
You know what I mean? How sometimes, a cloud of smoke might blur that space so that who you are and who the world thinks you are seems to be the same thing? With fresh air and no reason to even comb your hair in the morning as your only influences, your mind either gets restless and bored or you start spending time with some pretty profound thoughts.
If I ever had a profound thought, I never felt I could lay claim to it. I knew myself too well for that. Even when I didn't know the word for it, inspiration was filling the air around me and when you are spoon-fed inspiring thoughts, how can you take credit for that?
I rode a lot of colts during that time, anything that someone would pay me to ride. I remember one Appaloosa stud, about 5 years old, never ridden. His name was Lucky and he had striking color patterns on his grey and white hide.
I brought him home in our truck and starting riding him down skid roads, occasionally spotting bear paw prints in the mud around the puddles from last night's rain. I didn't have fancy places to break a horse there, I didn't even have any flat ground. No round pen or arena. No barn. Just a hillside corral, ride him a little til he bends his head left or right when you pull on the reins of the bosal, then open the gate and don't come home til he's darn good and tired.
The owners wanted to come pick him up when I got done my 30 days on him, but I said, "If he ain't broke enough for me to ride him the 25 miles back to your ranch, then I'm cheatin' you." And so I have a faded color photo of me bundled up for cold weather on a big Appy stallion, ready to head out over the back roads and mountains to deliver him to his owners. I think that was the last ride he ever had. Sad when that happens. Lucky was a good boy.
One thing happened you'll never believe, but I swear it's true. I heard a Bigfoot one night, bellowing outside our cabin. I'll tell that story another time, but that night will stay with me forever and I've heard many other stories about Sasquatch encounters since then and they all have a commonality with my experience.
We had some folks we knew who lived a couple of miles away and they would leave books in my mailbox all winter long. When I got done reading them, I'd put them back into their mailbox with a note. Starved for entertainment, as Too Slim from Riders in the Sky would say, I'd read anything that was left in there.
One day, I rode the old draft mare out to the box. Astride her broad, bare back, it was like riding on a comforter. Her name was Belle and what an incredible logging horse she was. She'd skid a log down to the "deck" of logs without anyone driving her, just pull right up to the side of the deck like she knew just where those logs had to go and wait for someone to unhook her. Then she'd go back up that skid trail alone to the logger in the woods, ready to pull down another log, log after log, all day.
I leaned over and opened the box to find an interesting-looking book in there. "Born Again" by Chuck Colson. I sure wasn't interested in anything religious, but I knew that the whole Watergate thing had gone right over my head when it was in the news, and I was interested in learning about it. Besides, as I said, it was winter in the northwoods and I was hungry to read anything that I hadn't already read five times.
to be continued...
SJP, part two
I promise I will get to the Sarah Jessica Parker part soon!
To continue from part one, thirty years ago, we lived a sparse lifestyle in a log cabin way up in the northwoods. I mentioned that we became close friends with our few and far-between neighbors, and many of them were very religious. I liked them a lot in spite of the fact that they carried Bibles around with them while out logging or doing construction work. That sort of thinking was really foreign to me.
I did have a type of faith, however. I felt a drawing toward God at a young age, when my father would drop my sister and me off at the local Congregational Church every Sunday morning for church and Sunday School. Later on, if he couldn't drive me the four miles to church, I'd walk.
It was a formidable, granite structure, this church, and I loved the little secret nooks and crannies that I grew to know intimately. I sang in the children's choir, songs like "This Little Light of Mine" and "Jesus Loves Me," and "Zaccheus Was a Wee Little Man." I attended Vacation Bible School for many years. That church was the center of our community, where rummage and bake sales were held and as children, we played "Red Rover" on the back lawn.
However, there was something missing from the message taught there. It turned out to be a good place to be while growing up as a child, but for a teenager to draw strength from, it was a severely lacking.
One of my memories of my church is from my teen years. I had an unpredictable horse named Buckshot, who was a green-broke, 3 yr. old gelding. I rode him everywhere and up and down highways, never wary that that was a dangerous practice. There wasn't an old "skid road" that I didn't explore on Buckshot in those halcyon years of owning and riding my first horse.
One day, I rode through the back woods to my school chum's house. Gretchen had a large pony, and on idyllic summer days, we would ride together often. On this morning, we decided that we wanted to ride bareback, so we stopped beside an old barn, stripped our saddles off, and clambered aboard the sweaty backs of our horses. I must have goosed Buckshot's sides as I climbed on, because once I was back on, he bogged his head and set into bucking, throwing me over his head, where I landed on the rocky ground of the old corral.
As if to add insult to injury, the big colt then trounced me with his front hooves as he continued bucking playfully. I felt the impact on my back (breaking a rib) and I heard his snort in my ear. Driven into the mud, I had dirt up on my nose, in my eyes and I was pretty disoriented.
I guess it doesn't take long in a situation like that for a teenager to understand that she had had a bad idea, so Gretchen and I saddled up and she took off for home, and I decided to ride the longer but less challenging way to my house, about ten miles away.
Halfway home, I realised I didn't have my glasses on, they must have come off during the wreck. When I got to the old Congregational Church, I stopped and went inside and called the people who lived across the street from the old barn where the rodeo had just occurred, asking them to look for my glasses and to hold onto them for me. Thanking the minister for holding my horse and avoiding his questions about why he hadn't seen me in church lately, I continued half-blind back to my little house where I had some explaining to do to my father.
next installment soon....
To continue from part one, thirty years ago, we lived a sparse lifestyle in a log cabin way up in the northwoods. I mentioned that we became close friends with our few and far-between neighbors, and many of them were very religious. I liked them a lot in spite of the fact that they carried Bibles around with them while out logging or doing construction work. That sort of thinking was really foreign to me.
I did have a type of faith, however. I felt a drawing toward God at a young age, when my father would drop my sister and me off at the local Congregational Church every Sunday morning for church and Sunday School. Later on, if he couldn't drive me the four miles to church, I'd walk.
It was a formidable, granite structure, this church, and I loved the little secret nooks and crannies that I grew to know intimately. I sang in the children's choir, songs like "This Little Light of Mine" and "Jesus Loves Me," and "Zaccheus Was a Wee Little Man." I attended Vacation Bible School for many years. That church was the center of our community, where rummage and bake sales were held and as children, we played "Red Rover" on the back lawn.
However, there was something missing from the message taught there. It turned out to be a good place to be while growing up as a child, but for a teenager to draw strength from, it was a severely lacking.
One of my memories of my church is from my teen years. I had an unpredictable horse named Buckshot, who was a green-broke, 3 yr. old gelding. I rode him everywhere and up and down highways, never wary that that was a dangerous practice. There wasn't an old "skid road" that I didn't explore on Buckshot in those halcyon years of owning and riding my first horse.
One day, I rode through the back woods to my school chum's house. Gretchen had a large pony, and on idyllic summer days, we would ride together often. On this morning, we decided that we wanted to ride bareback, so we stopped beside an old barn, stripped our saddles off, and clambered aboard the sweaty backs of our horses. I must have goosed Buckshot's sides as I climbed on, because once I was back on, he bogged his head and set into bucking, throwing me over his head, where I landed on the rocky ground of the old corral.
As if to add insult to injury, the big colt then trounced me with his front hooves as he continued bucking playfully. I felt the impact on my back (breaking a rib) and I heard his snort in my ear. Driven into the mud, I had dirt up on my nose, in my eyes and I was pretty disoriented.
I guess it doesn't take long in a situation like that for a teenager to understand that she had had a bad idea, so Gretchen and I saddled up and she took off for home, and I decided to ride the longer but less challenging way to my house, about ten miles away.
Halfway home, I realised I didn't have my glasses on, they must have come off during the wreck. When I got to the old Congregational Church, I stopped and went inside and called the people who lived across the street from the old barn where the rodeo had just occurred, asking them to look for my glasses and to hold onto them for me. Thanking the minister for holding my horse and avoiding his questions about why he hadn't seen me in church lately, I continued half-blind back to my little house where I had some explaining to do to my father.
next installment soon....
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