Not All Birdies Fly

The schools were closed Monday and Tuesday but Leslie and Ryan still had to work which meant we got to spend a couple of days with Emerson, Myra and Pierce.  Monday morning the fairy left them kisses for breakfast so we weren't forced to waste any time cooking and eating any healthy

breakfast stuff but could get right down to putting together Dean’s old Lionel train set.  It took quite a while to get the track together because as soon as the kids got one section connected,

another would pull apart.  Once they got the track together, they had to set the wheels of each car on it, just right, without having one car fall off when the next was attached.  But patience paid off and finally everything was connected and the train was ready to chug around the track.  Dean turned on the transformer, there was a humming noise, a spark, and then …………………………. nothing.  Everybody stared at the cars and tracks willing them to move but …… nothing.  Dean picked up the engine and stared at it, put it back down and stared at the wiring.  Then each kid picked up the engine, stared at it and put it back down.  They moved the cars back and forth by hand and offered suggestions while Dean tried to find a solution on the internet.  Finally we all shrugged, took the track apart and accepted defeat.

We managed to overcome our disappointment by putting on our snow gear, grabbing the sleds and heading out back.  I didn't know how solid the ice on the creek was so I stood at the bottom of the hill ready to throw my body in front of any sled that was headed for it but those sleds got going so fast that a face plant about halfway down the hill was usually the preferred point of exit.

After burning off all those calories we needed some lunch.

Bellies full we headed back out to build snow sculptures.  However, before we could begin building we had to test out the condition of the snow and the best way to check that was with snowballs.  Sunshine and warm temperatures had softened the snow to the perfect consistency for construction – sticky with just a little coating of ice.

Not quite so perfect for a snowball in the face though.

Creativity can be an emotional process so it wasn’t surprising that a snowball fight wasn’t the only battle fought that day.  In the midst of one animated discussion where Myra expressed to Emerson
her architectural vision — “I’ve got a great idea.  You’re just so arrogant you don’t want to listen!”
— Pierce spotted a bald eagle, which thankfully distracted her from pleading her case any further.  It flew so close I almost ducked.  As we were watching, another one appeared so we quickly built a bench to sit and watch them.

.

The next day began with another healthy breakfast and a plan to expand and improve our snow

menagerie but it was a little colder than the day before and the snow wouldn’t stick.  On top of that it was windy so it felt even colder.  The cold and wind (or barely noticeable slight breeze by Casper standards) didn’t keep Pierce and Myra from braving the wilds of the chokecherry “forest” or preventing Emerson from inspecting snow crystals.  Dean and I paced around pretending to touch up the previous day’s sculptures until we could bribe them with lunch at Perkins and a trip to the library.

There had been a lot of debate and discussion over the two days involving everything from the correct tint for frosting, television programming, preferential treatment (or not), and restaurant selection.  As we were seated at Perkins I conferred with Myra over the ability of her tiny stomach to hold a whole adult meal.  She pulled herself up tall(ish), squared her pointy little shoulders, looked me square in the eye, and with her nose in the air said, “I believe I am quite old enough to determine how much I can eat Nada.  And as I say this I am underlining old enough.”   Over the two days she spent with us, Myra's well of quips and comebacks never ran dry so rather than prolong the discussion I chose to keep my mouth quite shut.  In the end she chose to order a kids meal, and even though she was dismayed to see pancakes as her side instead of the toast she should have gotten, we were all relieved that she chose not to discuss that mistake with the waitress.  And as I write this I am underlining relieved.

◦

Not All Birdies Fly

Beard Baubles Aren't Just For Men

“Boys,” we said, “let’s go skiing.”  

We aren’t as close to cross country skiing here in Sheridan as we were in Casper.  Instead of a 20 minute drive from our house to the trails it’s now about a 45 minute drive — for most people.  For us, when Dean spots a rock or what he thinks looks like a rock, he reflexively lets up on the gas.  And if he actually talks about that supposed rock he might have just seen … well, let’s just say, if driving slower saves gas, we get up that mountain for next to nothing.  It was foggy on the drive up to the ski trails which pretty much prevented Dean's rock gawking, but the low visibility and discussions of the shrouded trees made him drive even slower so I had plenty of time to take some pictures as we crept up the mountain.  

We didn't know exactly where the trails were.  All we knew was that when we’d checked out the spot last winter (stupidly leaving our skis behind) there’d been cars parked alongside the highway where the trails began.  So when we saw a trail sign a short distance off the highway we figured that was the place.   The boys were in dog heaven but we were a bit taken aback by the lack of a groomed trail.  

We strapped on our skis and broke trail for a short distance.  As we trudged along Dean kept mumbling about how he didn’t think we were at the right place but I pointed at the sign on the fence saying, “but there’s a sign on the fence.” He refused to be convinced.  He decided we should get back in the car, and drive further up the highway.  He’s all for exercise but he has his limits. 

Turned out he was right and about three minutes up the highway were the real trails, which had been groomed …. before it had recently snowed.  So we still had to break trail a bit but at least the trails were wide and easy to follow.  And we only fell once.  Which is pretty good considering we had to cross a small creek and we had two 90-pound snow-crazed dogs running near us.

We’re planning to head back up that way this afternoon because we really need to hear something crunching other than peanut brittle between our teeth and feel the glide of something other than frosted cookies going down our throats.  

◦

Beard Baubles Aren't Just For Men

Wasn't That A Dainty Dish To Set Before The Queen?

Casper is boring me.  Or to be more precise, sitting in front of a computer ten hours a day and then coming home to, as Dean likes to call it, our hotel room, bores me.  After work we take Angus for a walk, eat dinner, clean up, watch TV, go to bed, get up the next day and do it again.  Consequently when we come to Sheridan, where we are this weekend, I’m always looking for something to do.  SOMEthing to do besides watch TV in a half-empty house. That’s why a few weeks ago I decided we should pull off the paneling, get the walls textured and then paint them. I really needed something to DO that didn't involve a remote control or a computer.

We've torn off the paneling.  It's been textured and we've been doing a bit of painting.
 

I really hope soon I will be able to show you the finished project.

We’ve spent the last three weekends up here priming and painting ceilings and walls.  Gosh, I’m beginning to hate painting.  But I hate being bored more.   

Last weekend when we were up here Dean said, “I need to tell you something.”  My heart sank.  “Oh, no, he found out I threw away the dog fur the last time I brushed Angus” I thought. But no.  It was much less traumatic.  He just told me that once we’ve finished with this living-dining room redo, I need to find a project that doesn’t involve him. 

This weekend, as much as I wanted to finish the last bit of painting, I told Dean he could do whatever he wanted to all day long on Friday.  Anything he wanted.  All day.  Because I knew Saturday it was supposed to rain and THEN we could finish painting.  I thought he would spend this gift from me organizing his garage/workshop so he could frame the windows and put on the baseboards in the house so he’d be able to 

create some kind of uniquely Dean object d’art.  But he surprised me by spending about five hours watching You Tube videos to help him figure out how to put together the special fancy chainsaw sharpener he’d purchased last fall.  Too bad he discovered he needs to order a different grinder wheel to fit his baby electric chainsaw but I’m sure those cottonwood branches hanging over the house aren’t going anywhere.

Since it was a warm and gorgeous day I decided to keep myself busy by trimming the potentilla.  By time I’d finished clipping and hauling 15 branch and dead-leaf filled tarps my body hurt so much Dean had to help

 

 

me get up off the couch where I had dropped after stumbling in from the yard.  My hand might have been a bit less claw-like if he would have realized the big 2-handle hedge shears didn’t work because the screw that was loose was in the clippers, not my head, and not because I was “probably clipping at an angle instead of straight on.”  But on the bright side, after using the smaller hand-held pruning shears my fingers were curled in the exact position I would need to hold a paintbrush later, and the scabs and scratches on my forehead and arms shouldn’t leave a scar. 

Later, in the wee hours of the night as I was fumbling for the Ibuprophen, a family hike in the Tongue River Canyon sounded like a much better plan for Saturday than more painting or yard work. 

Dean managed to contain his disappointment that we wouldn’t be painting.   

Where's Myra?!

Where's Angus?!

 Pierce and Emerson asked him geology questions and even listened when he answered which was a totally new experience for him. 

 We headed home just before the rain started

and on the drive I saw three bald eagles.  Every time I saw one perched high on a tree I thought about asking Dean to stop so I could take a picture but then I'd think it would just be a waste of time since all I have is a little point and shoot camera.  I finally decided that was just stupid so when I saw a Golden in a tree I decided just because I didn’t have a fancy camera with a telephoto lens it wasn’t a good not reason to try.   

 I should have had a fancy camera with a telephoto lens.

This morning we woke up to winter. I knew it was too early to think we wouldn’t get any more snow but, like dying, even though I know it’s inevitable, it’s hard to truly believe it’s really going to happen to me.  There was no yard work today.  There was no hiking today.  Dean wishes there had been no painting today.  But I wasn’t bored.  

◦

Wasn't That A Dainty Dish To Set Before The Queen?

Happy Hour In Wyoming

Most days when somebody brings doughnuts to work I either:  1.  spend my day trying to avoid eating one or, 2.  spend the day rationalizing why I should be able to eat one.  Then there are the days I  crave a doughnut and nobody brings any to work.  I really wanted a doughnut this morning. It’s Friday. Isn’t there some unwritten rule that on Fridays somebody will bring a box of glistening, sprinkle-covered lard to the office?

You may wonder why I don’t just bring doughnuts myself. It’s the guilt. I would not be able to live with the guilt of bringing in a box of artery-hardening fat. Because if I brought doughnuts to work, I would feel obligated to eat one. Doughnut guilt is rivaled only by mother guilt in its all-consuming power. If somebody else brings them in, it’s out of my control. It’s not my fault there is a box of luscious, lardaceous, little cakes on the conference table. I only bear the guilt if I actually eat one. Then it just comes down to creative rationalization. If I walk by that conference table five times and the doughnut with the chocolate frosting, cream filling and sprinkles is still there, it means I should take it. Or, if even one of those doughnuts is still there at 12:30 p.m. it’s a sign that I should eat one. (That saves me from acting on the temptation most times because if there’s a crumb left by 10:30 a.m. it’s a miracle.) Now and then I use the reward system with myself. Remember three weeks ago when you went out for Mexican food and only ate one bowl of chips? You deserve one.  One of my favorites is, You worked out five extra minutes on the elliptical last week. Go for it. And then there’s the I won’t have a glass of wine with dinner tonight so I can eat this doughnut. (That’s just delusion.)

Yesterday after work, instead of my 35 minutes on the dreaded, hateful, torture machine we hit the Nordic trails on the mountain. It was an hour and a half of skiing on pristine snow. But it almost didn’t happen. Three blocks from home, as we were nearing the stoplight, I looked down at Dean’s feet. I wanted to be sure he hadn’t decided to wear his ski boots and risk my life by catching those big, square toes on the accelerator and missing the brake pedal when the need arose. I didn’t want to get up close and personal with folks innocently heading to the Mini Mart for the doughnut I didn’t get today. I was relieved to see he was appropriately clad in his tennis shoes. “You remembered your ski boots, didn’t you?” “Crap!” he said as he cranked the wheel, whipped into the right lane, missed the exit off the road, hit the brakes, and stopped at the light I had worried about only two seconds earlier. At least he wasn’t wearing the boots.

We retrieved the boots and arrived at the trails a little later than planned, to find our co-worker, Matt, waiting impatiently for us. About 15 minutes into our ski, I realized I hadn’t put on my ski socks. I was wearing the little thin socks I wore to work. You might wonder why that would matter. It matters because I have pilfered Abby’s skis and boots and the boots are about ½ size too big for me. Even on the days I actually remember to wear my heavier ski socks with the special sock liners, my feet slip around a bit in her boots. To keep my feet from slipping around as I skied, I was forced to curl my toes under and grip the inside of those boots as hard as I could. It didn’t help much. But that’s okay. I built up a lot of muscle in my toes last night.

As we skied further away from the main trails, the snow got softer and the tracks completely disappeared. That’s not a big deal if you are Dean and Matt and have worn your backcountry skis with nice metal edges. Backcountry skis that make a nice wide track and are heavy and solid and allow you to glide along, breaking trail, barely breaking a sweat. Nice wide, solid skis that allow you to ski in your zen-like state as you take in the breathtaking view, admire the pristine snow, and absorb the silent beauty. I did not wear my backcountry skis. I wore Abby’s classic skis. Classic skis are perfect for groomed trails with nice packed tracks. Not for breaking trail. I did not reach that state of peaceful tranquility as I skied. There was a lot of heavy breathing and carrying on complete conversations with myself as I tried to stay upright in tracks of soft snow created by the two men gliding peacefully ahead of me in their nice, wide, solid, backcountry skis.

Mean Me: What were you thinking, Cathy? Why didn’t you bring your backcountry skis? You watched it snow all day from your window at work. You knew the trails wouldn’t be groomed.

Nice Me: I know….but wasn’t it beautiful? It was so soft and fluf

Mean Me: Fluffy shmuffy. You screwed up.

Nice Me: Geez. I’m sorry. I guess I wasn’t thinking.

Mean Me: And holy cow! How could you forget your ski socks? You know those boots are too big for you already and you need to fill the extra space with thicker socks.

Nice Me: Okay! I said I was sorry. What do you want me to do? Go back down and get them?

Mean Me: They were in the box with your boots for pity sake. How could you miss them?

Nice Me: I remembered Dean’s boots—sort of. That must count for something.

Mean Me: Crap. Where’s a track I can follow?

Nice Me: Was that my ankle twisting? Uh oh. I hope I’m not getting a blister.

Mean Me: That’s what you get. You’re the one who brought the wrong skis.

Nice Me: Give me a break. I’m doing the best I can. I’m sweating worse than if I was on the elliptical.

Mean Me: You wanted a workout so stop whining………………..Idiot.

Every now and then Dean and Matt would stop and wait for me. I’d see them up ahead, standing, relaxed, resting on their ski poles, and gazing out upon the vista. I’d trudge up. They would comment on the beauty of our surroundings, sigh, rave about the conditions of the snow, and ask me how I was doing. Awesome, great. I’m great. Isn’t this just the best snow ever? Then they’d glide off, I’d curl up my toes, grip my boots and follow.

Mean Me: If you would have brought the right skis and remembered your socks you would have been able to keep up with them. You would have been able to stop and rest now and then and enjoy the view right along with them. And you could have even taken pictures.........if you would have remembered your camera.

Nice Me: Shut up.

That’s why I wanted a doughnut today. I deserved it.◦

Happy Hour In Wyoming