Spring Fever is Here!

Spring Fever is here!

I'm going out to look for the first flower that blooms in this high mountain country, the pale blue with yellow stamina of the Pasqueflower. The sun is shinning and there is just a light breeze out. Crunching through the fallen, dry pine needles made me think of all the spring rituals this time of year and how they evolved.

Spring Rites from my book, "Cooking with Memories in Historic Georgetown, Colorado".

The egg is definitely the symbol for Spring rites. Here's a myth from the Mid-eastern cultures that you may find interesting. They believed that the earth was hatched from a giant egg. Wouldn't want to run into that egg-layer anytime soon.

From the Egyptians, Persians and Chinese, we contribute the practice of dying pastel eggs. They would give them to their friends as a symbol of renewed life. Decorated hollow eggs were found in Egyptian tombs as amulets to help the soul find rebirth. Druids dyed eggs red in Spring to honor the sun.

As early as 1290, bookkeepers for England's King Edward I, recorded a charge of eighteen pence to purchase 450 gold-leafed and colored eggs as Easter gifts.

There have been many Spring Festivals over the years - Ostara, Eostre, Easter, Vernal Equinox, Spring Equinox and the First Day of Spring that all occur during mid-March to early April. The goddess, Ostara or Eostre, is always portrayed with a basket of eggs and a hare or rabbit beside her, marking the sun warming the earth, the appearance of new buds and the greening of the earth.

In Russia, the Krasnjo Gorka tradition still continues today. A woman holding a red egg and a round loaf of bread faces east, sings a spring song with the crowds, then takes a husk doll who represents Marzena, Grandmother Winter, throwing it out at the edge if the village or physically destroying it. Thus she ends Winter.

I found the story about the Easter basket fascinating. Before the chicken was domesticated, these wild chickens would fly into trees to roost and nest. The people would climb trees to hunt for both hen and other bird eggs in the bird nests. This could have been the start of the woven egg basket.

Bird's eggs are often lightly pastel colored and/or speckled in nature to protect them from predators. Could this have been the creative force for starting to color and decorate eggs?

How many of you have been part of an egg rolling contest? Where did this custom originate? In the Slavic countries, decorating hard boiled eggs, then rolling them along the fields represents the transfer of fertility of the egg to the earth for good crops.

If you have been to a sunrise service to celebrate the risen Christ, another sunrise service celebrated long ago that you might not know about is the ancient spring ritual of building bonfires at Dawn to symbolize the triumph of light and life over death and darkness.

Spring Festivals were the first customs for planting new ideas, new goals for the coming year, new business or new activities to be started. Celebrate a new day. Springtime in the Rockies is near.Spring Fever is here!

I'm going out to look for the first flower that blooms in this high mountain country, the pale blue with yellow stamina of the Pasqueflower. The sun is shinning and there is just a light breeze out. Crunching through the fallen, dry pine needles made me think of all the spring rituals this time of year and how they evolved.

Spring Rites from my book, "Cooking with Memories in Historic Georgetown, Colorado".

The egg is definitely the symbol for Spring rites. Here's a myth from the Mid-eastern cultures that you may find interesting. They believed that the earth was hatched from a giant egg. Wouldn't want to run into that egg-layer anytime soon.

From the Egyptians, Persians and Chinese, we contribute the practice of dying pastel eggs. They would give them to their friends as a symbol of renewed life. Decorated hollow eggs were found in Egyptian tombs as amulets to help the soul find rebirth. Druids dyed eggs red in Spring to honor the sun.

As early as 1290, bookkeepers for England's King Edward I, recorded a charge of eighteen pence to purchase 450 gold-leafed and colored eggs as Easter gifts.

There have been many Spring Festivals over the years - Ostara, Eostre, Easter, Vernal Equinox, Spring Equinox and the First Day of Spring that all occur during mid-March to early April. The goddess, Ostara or Eostre, is always portrayed with a basket of eggs and a hare or rabbit beside her, marking the sun warming the earth, the appearance of new buds and the greening of the earth.

In Russia, the Krasnjo Gorka tradition still continues today. A woman holding a red egg and a round loaf of bread faces east, sings a spring song with the crowds, then takes a husk doll who represents Marzena, Grandmother Winter, throwing it out at the edge if the village or physically destroying it. Thus she ends Winter.

I found the story about the Easter basket fascinating. Before the chicken was domesticated, these wild chickens would fly into trees to roost and nest. The people would climb trees to hunt for both hen and other bird eggs in the bird nests. This could have been the start of the woven egg basket.

Bird's eggs are often lightly pastel colored and/or speckled in nature to protect them from predators. Could this have been the creative force for starting to color and decorate eggs?

How many of you have been part of an egg rolling contest? Where did this custom originate? In the Slavic countries, decorating hard boiled eggs, then rolling them along the fields represents the transfer of fertility of the egg to the earth for good crops.

If you have been to a sunrise service to celebrate the risen Christ, another sunrise service celebrated long ago that you might not know about is the ancient spring ritual of building bonfires at Dawn to symbolize the triumph of light and life over death and darkness.

Spring Festivals were the first customs for planting new ideas, new goals for the coming year, new business or new activities to be started. Celebrate a new day. Springtime in the Rockies is near.Spring Fever is here!

I'm going out to look for the first flower that blooms in this high mountain country, the pale blue with yellow stamina of the Pasqueflower. The sun is shinning and there is just a light breeze out. Crunching through the fallen, dry pine needles made me think of all the spring rituals this time of year and how they evolved.

Spring Rites from my book, "Cooking with Memories in Historic Georgetown, Colorado".

The egg is definitely the symbol for Spring rites. Here's a myth from the Mid-eastern cultures that you may find interesting. They believed that the earth was hatched from a giant egg. Wouldn't want to run into that egg-layer anytime soon.

From the Egyptians, Persians and Chinese, we contribute the practice of dying pastel eggs. They would give them to their friends as a symbol of renewed life. Decorated hollow eggs were found in Egyptian tombs as amulets to help the soul find rebirth. Druids dyed eggs red in Spring to honor the sun.

As early as 1290, bookkeepers for England's King Edward I, recorded a charge of eighteen pence to purchase 450 gold-leafed and colored eggs as Easter gifts.

There have been many Spring Festivals over the years - Ostara, Eostre, Easter, Vernal Equinox, Spring Equinox and the First Day of Spring that all occur during mid-March to early April. The goddess, Ostara or Eostre, is always portrayed with a basket of eggs and a hare or rabbit beside her, marking the sun warming the earth, the appearance of new buds and the greening of the earth.

In Russia, the Krasnjo Gorka tradition still continues today. A woman holding a red egg and a round loaf of bread faces east, sings a spring song with the crowds, then takes a husk doll who represents Marzena, Grandmother Winter, throwing it out at the edge if the village or physically destroying it. Thus she ends Winter.

I found the story about the Easter basket fascinating. Before the chicken was domesticated, these wild chickens would fly into trees to roost and nest. The people would climb trees to hunt for both hen and other bird eggs in the bird nests. This could have been the start of the woven egg basket.

Bird's eggs are often lightly pastel colored and/or speckled in nature to protect them from predators. Could this have been the creative force for starting to color and decorate eggs?

How many of you have been part of an egg rolling contest? Where did this custom originate? In the Slavic countries, decorating hard boiled eggs, then rolling them along the fields represents the transfer of fertility of the egg to the earth for good crops.

If you have been to a sunrise service to celebrate the risen Christ, another sunrise service celebrated long ago that you might not know about is the ancient spring ritual of building bonfires at Dawn to symbolize the triumph of light and life over death and darkness.

Spring Festivals were the first customs for planting new ideas, new goals for the coming year, new business or new activities to be started. Celebrate a new day. Springtime in the Rockies is near.Spring Fever is here!

I'm going out to look for the first flower that blooms in this high mountain country, the pale blue with yellow stamina of the Pasqueflower. The sun is shinning and there is just a light breeze out. Crunching through the fallen, dry pine needles made me think of all the spring rituals this time of year and how they evolved.

Spring Rites from my book, "Cooking with Memories in Historic Georgetown, Colorado".

The egg is definitely the symbol for Spring rites. Here's a myth from the Mid-eastern cultures that you may find interesting. They believed that the earth was hatched from a giant egg. Wouldn't want to run into that egg-layer anytime soon.

From the Egyptians, Persians and Chinese, we contribute the practice of dying pastel eggs. They would give them to their friends as a symbol of renewed life. Decorated hollow eggs were found in Egyptian tombs as amulets to help the soul find rebirth. Druids dyed eggs red in Spring to honor the sun.

As early as 1290, bookkeepers for England's King Edward I, recorded a charge of eighteen pence to purchase 450 gold-leafed and colored eggs as Easter gifts.

There have been many Spring Festivals over the years - Ostara, Eostre, Easter, Vernal Equinox, Spring Equinox and the First Day of Spring that all occur during mid-March to early April. The goddess, Ostara or Eostre, is always portrayed with a basket of eggs and a hare or rabbit beside her, marking the sun warming the earth, the appearance of new buds and the greening of the earth.

In Russia, the Krasnjo Gorka tradition still continues today. A woman holding a red egg and a round loaf of bread faces east, sings a spring song with the crowds, then takes a husk doll who represents Marzena, Grandmother Winter, throwing it out at the edge if the village or physically destroying it. Thus she ends Winter.

I found the story about the Easter basket fascinating. Before the chicken was domesticated, these wild chickens would fly into trees to roost and nest. The people would climb trees to hunt for both hen and other bird eggs in the bird nests. This could have been the start of the woven egg basket.

Bird's eggs are often lightly pastel colored and/or speckled in nature to protect them from predators. Could this have been the creative force for starting to color and decorate eggs?

How many of you have been part of an egg rolling contest? Where did this custom originate? In the Slavic countries, decorating hard boiled eggs, then rolling them along the fields represents the transfer of fertility of the egg to the earth for good crops.

If you have been to a sunrise service to celebrate the risen Christ, another sunrise service celebrated long ago that you might not know about is the ancient spring ritual of building bonfires at Dawn to symbolize the triumph of light and life over death and darkness.

Spring Festivals were the first customs for planting new ideas, new goals for the coming year, new business or new activities to be started. Celebrate a new day. Springtime in the Rockies is near.W

Splat, again.

This was about two & 1/2 years ago. My times flies.

Update: Again November 1st, I had another really bad fall in my daughter's driveway, ended with a ride in a First Responders ambulance to the emergency room where they found a tumor on my adrenal gland. Operation in April removed the whole gland.

I still get dizzy and fainted last September when working for the Visitor Center.

I'm living with these facts of life and still enjoying every day!

blog from 2014
"When you are in your seventies, you do NOT want to fall. Even remembering where there is a step, is sometimes fleeting. Yesterday at my daughter’s, I was walking with my glass of water and my iPad following her to watch "20 Feet from Famous" movie on their big TV screen. Her husband and my granddaughter were waiting.  And yes, we were talking, I know not what about now. Thump, I see my self falling toward the wood floor entryway, water hitting the floor before me in large splashes everywhere, my iPad skittering across the floor like it’s an ice rink. My knee hits the top step of the entry, hard and I am down, still holding my glass, now with very little water in it. My daughter turns around to find me splayed out across the floor.

I am so embarrassed at the mess I’ve just created and frightened that I might have broken something I cannot recover from. My knee hurts and I imagine there is wet sticky blood coming through my black jeans.

Then it happens. A slow welling of tears I cannot stop, and a deep wail comes out of my mouth. The flood cannot be stopped or the sobbing either. My daughter is concerned and wants to know if I’m hurt. Between sobs, I tell her no, I’m fine. I’m standing upright now, so nothing is broken. Then I try to get out an apology for the mess I’ve created. She keeps such a neat house, and I have totally destroyed that with water everywhere. She is still trying to understand what happened and what the heck I’m saying, to no avail.

I’m apologizing for everything and trying to ask for a towel to clean it up, but she can’t figure out what I’m saying. She repeats, “What happened?” This of course starts another bout of sobs when I think that I didn’t even see the two steps up to the hallway. I have known those steps have been there for the decades she has lived here. Slobbering on, I try to get out that that my eyes are not what they use to be and I hate getting old - etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

She mops up the water and tries to calm me down, but every time, my emotions seem to be subsiding, I think about getting old, blind, feeble and dangerous to others, here it comes again. I am not only embarrassed now, but angry at myself for not being able to get control.

I’m not going to go into the family room and watch a movie and upset everyone, So I tell my daughter, I’m going to my bedroom and lay down… for the night! Nothing she says makes any sense and I’m sure nothing I say makes any sense, so up I go.

She came in to check on me after the movie, which, you guessed it, started the water works again, but no sobbing, so I knew I was better. I did have a bruise near my knee, but nothing else. Finally the house settled down and I slept like a log. As the saying goes, this GETTING OLD IS NOT FOR SThis was about two & 1/2 years ago. My times flies.

Update: Again November 1st, I had another really bad fall in my daughter's driveway, ended with a ride in a First Responders ambulance to the emergency room where they found a tumor on my adrenal gland. Operation in April removed the whole gland.

I still get dizzy and fainted last September when working for the Visitor Center.

I'm living with these facts of life and still enjoying every day!

blog from 2014
"When you are in your seventies, you do NOT want to fall. Even remembering where there is a step, is sometimes fleeting. Yesterday at my daughter’s, I was walking with my glass of water and my iPad following her to watch "20 Feet from Famous" movie on their big TV screen. Her husband and my granddaughter were waiting.  And yes, we were talking, I know not what about now. Thump, I see my self falling toward the wood floor entryway, water hitting the floor before me in large splashes everywhere, my iPad skittering across the floor like it’s an ice rink. My knee hits the top step of the entry, hard and I am down, still holding my glass, now with very little water in it. My daughter turns around to find me splayed out across the floor.

I am so embarrassed at the mess I’ve just created and frightened that I might have broken something I cannot recover from. My knee hurts and I imagine there is wet sticky blood coming through my black jeans.

Then it happens. A slow welling of tears I cannot stop, and a deep wail comes out of my mouth. The flood cannot be stopped or the sobbing either. My daughter is concerned and wants to know if I’m hurt. Between sobs, I tell her no, I’m fine. I’m standing upright now, so nothing is broken. Then I try to get out an apology for the mess I’ve created. She keeps such a neat house, and I have totally destroyed that with water everywhere. She is still trying to understand what happened and what the heck I’m saying, to no avail.

I’m apologizing for everything and trying to ask for a towel to clean it up, but she can’t figure out what I’m saying. She repeats, “What happened?” This of course starts another bout of sobs when I think that I didn’t even see the two steps up to the hallway. I have known those steps have been there for the decades she has lived here. Slobbering on, I try to get out that that my eyes are not what they use to be and I hate getting old - etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

She mops up the water and tries to calm me down, but every time, my emotions seem to be subsiding, I think about getting old, blind, feeble and dangerous to others, here it comes again. I am not only embarrassed now, but angry at myself for not being able to get control.

I’m not going to go into the family room and watch a movie and upset everyone, So I tell my daughter, I’m going to my bedroom and lay down… for the night! Nothing she says makes any sense and I’m sure nothing I say makes any sense, so up I go.

She came in to check on me after the movie, which, you guessed it, started the water works again, but no sobbing, so I knew I was better. I did have a bruise near my knee, but nothing else. Finally the house settled down and I slept like a log. As the saying goes, this GETTING OLD IS NOT FOR SISSIES."This was about two & 1/2 years ago. My times flies.

Update: Again November 1st, I had another really bad fall in my daughter's driveway, ended with a ride in a First Responders ambulance to the emergency room where they found a tumor on my adrenal gland. Operation in April removed the whole gland.

I still get dizzy and fainted last September when working for the Visitor Center.

I'm living with these facts of life and still enjoying every day!

blog from 2014
"When you are in your seventies, you do NOT want to fall. Even remembering where there is a step, is sometimes fleeting. Yesterday at my daughter’s, I was walking with my glass of water and my iPad following her to watch "20 Feet from Famous" movie on their big TV screen. Her husband and my granddaughter were waiting.  And yes, we were talking, I know not what about now. Thump, I see my self falling toward the wood floor entryway, water hitting the floor before me in large splashes everywhere, my iPad skittering across the floor like it’s an ice rink. My knee hits the top step of the entry, hard and I am down, still holding my glass, now with very little water in it. My daughter turns around to find me splayed out across the floor.

I am so embarrassed at the mess I’ve just created and frightened that I might have broken something I cannot recover from. My knee hurts and I imagine there is wet sticky blood coming through my black jeans.

Then it happens. A slow welling of tears I cannot stop, and a deep wail comes out of my mouth. The flood cannot be stopped or the sobbing either. My daughter is concerned and wants to know if I’m hurt. Between sobs, I tell her no, I’m fine. I’m standing upright now, so nothing is broken. Then I try to get out an apology for the mess I’ve created. She keeps such a neat house, and I have totally destroyed that with water everywhere. She is still trying to understand what happened and what the heck I’m saying, to no avail.

I’m apologizing for everything and trying to ask for a towel to clean it up, but she can’t figure out what I’m saying. She repeats, “What happened?” This of course starts another bout of sobs when I think that I didn’t even see the two steps up to the hallway. I have known those steps have been there for the decades she has lived here. Slobbering on, I try to get out that that my eyes are not what they use to be and I hate getting old - etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

She mops up the water and tries to calm me down, but every time, my emotions seem to be subsiding, I think about getting old, blind, feeble and dangerous to others, here it comes again. I am not only embarrassed now, but angry at myself for not being able to get control.

I’m not going to go into the family room and watch a movie and upset everyone, So I tell my daughter, I’m going to my bedroom and lay down… for the night! Nothing she says makes any sense and I’m sure nothing I say makes any sense, so up I go.

She came in to check on me after the movie, which, you guessed it, started the water works again, but no sobbing, so I knew I was better. I did have a bruise near my knee, but nothing else. Finally the house settled down and I slept like a log. As the saying goes, this GETTING OLD IS NOT FOR SISSIES."

Lessons Learned Along the Way

This is the first chapter in a story that my daughter inspired me to write. She always makes me a better person.

Although I am trying hard to be calm, positive, happy and to live in the moment, those old habits hanging onto negative hurts or anger exploded out of my mouth before I'm aware of it happening.

Then I read the response in my daughter's face and know my words have hurt her deeply. Once those simple words are spoken, no amount of apology or since sorry can ever erase what has been said.

My quest for happiness is now tainted with worry. Even worse. I know how hard she has been trying to be kinder than ever before, to be more accepting, and to change her habits too.

If she stops coming up often to spend time with me, I can understand. Although she still answers my texts and remembers to send beautiful cards, I may not be included in her plans the same way.

Lessons learned along the way are hard. And this one is even more so.

Be careful of your words. They are powerful and cannot be forgotten easily. Bring words of understanding, hope, laughter, happiness, support and encouragement. This is my wish for everyone.

VOODOO DRUMS

Voodoo Drums

Who would think that my first Caribbean Cruise would lead to such an uncomfortable, troublesome, adventure.

It started off with all the excitement one might expect from winning a cruise trip for four from the Simmons Beautyrest Mattress company in the mid-70s. To make the trip even more special, we took my dad and step-mother from San Diego.

It was our second port of call, Haiti. My husband just wanted to sit on the beach in the sun. My folks wanted to take a tour of the city and me… anything with horses caught my eye. The cruise line offered a day trip, on horseback through the jungle, up to the Citadel on the top of a mountain overlooking the bay.

I confess, I was very aware of the past horrific acts of the past dictator. It was an uneasy feeling, but the opportunity to ride horseback through the jungle, come on!

The cab, a scheduled hour's ride to the horses, was old and no frills. I shared it with a young couple from the cruise line. Soon we were out of the dirty city and into the country side. Small huts with no doors or windows spotted the landscape. It was uncomfortably hot, no air conditioning here.  Driving the dirt road kicked up dust trails that somehow managed to drift into the cab. All of a sudden, the cab began to buck and sputter... then it stopped dead in the middle of nowhere.

Now, I tell you, it was an uneasy, frightening moment. All kinds of scenarios flashed through my head. None of them had a good ending.

Everyone exited the cab, too hot to stay inside it. While the driver checked under the hood, I looked around expecting to see poverty at its worst. There was a square shaped hut not to far from the road, children were playing and laughing. It looked as though a few woman were taking some kind of fruit from the trees that shaded their home. One had a baby in some sort of sling over her shoulder. Birds were tweeting their song, and even a brief breeze fluttered through. This was not what I thought poverty looked like. (More poverty looks like?)It wasn't long before our driver hailed down a passing cab, and we all squeezed in to complete our ride.

Remember I said horses? When we arrived at the parking lot where we were to start our trek, there stood the scrawniest, boniest, most pathetic creatures that could ever be called a horse- a very small horse at that. The saddle had both a breast collar and a tail piece to hold the saddle on. At each horse's head was a pony boy that would lead the horse. As I got closer, I saw an open sore peeking out from a thin saddle blanket. I refused to get on, telling the pony boy that I would walk. He didn't understand a thing I said. I tried a little Spanish, then a little pantomime. Nope, he just smiled and held the stirrup for me. At this point the head wrangler was getting irritated that I was holding up the trip. He was yelling at me in a language I certainly didn't understand, all the rest of the tour was mounted and ready. So, I mounted the poor horse and off we went into the jungle.

It was cooler as we climbed into the trees on what looked like a dry creek bed. I tried to keep as much weight off the horse and into the stirrups. The smiling face of my pony boy was always there every time I looked at him. Birds were singing, the sound of talking drifted down every now and then. A horse would knicker. A sound of a stone rolling as the hooves  loosened them.

Was that a drum beat? It was getting louder and most definitely it was drums. I caught the eye of my pony boy and pointed into the jungle where the sound of drums seemed to emanate. He nodded and said something I didn't recognize. He said it again slowly and drawn out. VOODOO. My eyebrow flew upward and my lips stretched tight. Voodoo? I questioned. He pointed toward the drumming and smiled his pony boy best.

As I said it was an uncomfortable, troublesome, adventure, and I lived to tell you about it.

What Happened After the Voodoo drums?

Well… nothing. Our horses finally got us to the top. At the Citadel , the tour people had lunch for us and soft drinks that were flown in by helicopter. I loved the tour around the fortress. It's history was intriguing. One lady was sick, and she was flown down to the hospital at Port au Prince. Normal tourist stuff. Then we got back on those poor horses and headed down.  

In the parking lot, as we all were dismounting, a swarm of children surrounded us with their hands out, begging. From out of nowhere came a gang of uniformed military guys with guns, yelling at the children, hitting them with the butt of their guns, pushing them away from us. They were little children. We were quickly escorted into waiting cabs and down the road we went, dirt flying.

I know I told you nothing else happened.
The drums had stopped, and the guns came out. Yes, big rifles.

I was so happy to return to the safety of the Cruise ship and my loved ones.

I AM INVISIBLE

INVISIBLE!

You know that feeling. You call your children and they are too busy to really have a conversation with you. You call your friends to get together, the same thing, too busy, got appointments. At work, your conversation is interrupted because, as you are talking, your boss starts walking away. I hate, hate, hate that words, NO, CAN'T, BUSY.

 Can one really be invisible? It's a valid question. For me, I started feeling invisible when Luc, my little longhaired chihuahua, died. I thought it was grief, and part of it was an overwelming feeling of missing him, of loss, of loneliness. It's when those agoraphobia tendencies started to set in making me a self-made prisoner in my own house.

Let's face it, we talk to ourselves all the time. Some might call it thinking, some might not think they do. We talk all night in our dreams. We talk to ourselves when we are listening to others, driving a car.  We talk to ourselves as we read, immersing ourselves in characters or in understanding fiction or non-fiction plots. Sometimes I'll get so engrossed in my thoughts, that I have to back up the TV show to catch up on the story I am watching.

Now that my family is grown and their families are grown, and I'm long retired from my dream jobs, this feeling of loneliness rears up. Then again, I can be very lonely in a crowded party or event. My charisma takes over, I can be charming! No one there would ever know I felt invisible at that moment.

 I've felt like this for quite awhile. It was worse years ago before I discovered Facebook.  A place for me to be social, I said. Even if I'm stuck in my home, I won't be alone, I said. It's easier to post multiple photos than to send in an email, I said. I can write my blogs (pages), I said. If this is all true, then why am I writing about being invisible, you say? See, you were talking to yourself. Ha.

I Live with Thieves

Some in this historic Georgetown, where I live, are positive they live with ghosts. Not unusual when houses and buildings were built in the mid 1800s. Me? I live with thieves. When I told my daughter this recently, she gave me the weirdest look. "Have you had a break in, Mom?"

I wasn't sure how to tell her. "I never see them, but I know when they've taken things."

"Mom, don't you keep your doors locked/" I could hear the concern in her voice or was it shock! As my daughter persisted, "Should we change the locks and codes?"

Still thinking, I pause as I wonder how to tell her.

When I worked as a tour guide at the Stanley Hotel, in Estes Park, Colorado, which promotes a ghost riddled hotel, it seemed that every tour, someone would ask me about my sightings of the infamous ghosts. My answer was always, "Even though I personally have never seen any ghosts or unusual sightings, I certainly have had guests tell me numerous stories." I was off the hook!

This, this was different, no easy answer now.

"It is sort of scary." Not usually at a loss of words, I hear my voice shake a little. "It happens when I'm in the house alone." Now she frowns and fold her hands.

Haltingly, I continue, "Sometimes when I'm preparing food, these thieves come when I'm not looking or have just stepped out of the room, and I know because one of my ingredients is gone, off the counter, not anywhere in the kitchen. Thinking, I may have distractedly taken it to the dining room table, I look there. Nope. Then my glasses are gone when I've just put them down."

Poltergiest, I imagine, though they throw things. My inner voice takes over my thoughts. Maybe a impish elf. Prankster. Gives me a start and a slight feeling of fear.

"What else, Mom?" Her voice brings me back to the present. "It is so frustrating. What really bugs me," I look her right in the eye and let her in on this weird phenomena, "Often, I'll go back and there it is, right where I knew it should be. It's like these thieves are laughing at me."

Damn it! She is smiling, stifling a snicker.

"I'm serious!" I hurl back at her. "Lately it's been getting worse." My daughter's face becomes taunt with a serious frown.

Okay, I'm just going to say it. "These thieves are stealing my words and it happened when there are people right there listening. These thieves are following me around now." I look down at my feet. "It is so embarrassing."

Now I watch as she looks around. What? Did she see one of these thieves? Looking around, I see... nothing.

Oh my god, they are stealing my mind!

On my horse farm, I also had milk goats for awhile. You will laugh because I wasn't raised on a farm, so when we moved to the country to raise animals and live closer to the land, the milk goat got there before the goat shed and milking stanchion were done. We put hay bales in the garage to form a make shift stall and my 3 children, fed the grain and held the "How to Milk a Goat" book. I sat on the ground, listened to the instructions one child read to me, and milked. 

My brother, who also never was raised on a farm, built the goat shed and best of all the goat stanchion to hold the goat while milking. He also built the attached chicken coop. 

Although I don't remember any pesky raccoons there, we did have an occasional skunk, one who squeezed in between the pipes under the sink where our garbage can was. When my six year old son, opened the cabinet door, the shock on his face brought all of us into see what he saw. His older sisters started to scream, I was beside myself trying to quiet them. We saw him leave in an unbelievably small area around the pipe. 

The extension service told us to find the hole around the base of the house where he got under, scatter flour on the ground around the opening, when we saw footprints in the flour leaving, then we should board the hole up. Not easy in Oregon where it rains a lot. Ha. 

Good thing that resulted was the children were very quiet in the house until we solved the entrance problem.

Sent from my iPad

The Power of Risks and Chance

I've wanted to write this story for a long time now. So almost 30 years later... Here it is.

As an Incentive Program Manager, for an International Fortune 500 company, my job was not only to arrange all the venue, meeting spaces, transportation, food and logistics, but to find a speaker who could/would relate and motivate a national sales force. The company was experiencing a downturn in sales for the first time and morale was escalating downward too. 

From the Meeting Planners International list of speakers, I listened to a tape from a speaker who talked about a Little League coach whose team was down 0 to 3.  It was the bottom of the 9th inning and this was it. Gathering his young team around him, he looked around at all the defeated faces. He asked them, "Is it possible to win the game?" Everyone one of them shook their heads no. "Do you think any team has won a game being so far down in the bottom of the ninth?" Again, the desolate group, shook their heads no.

Grabbing his laptop, the coach did a quick search, turned the screen around and showed them that not only one but a long list of teams had came back in the bottom of the ninth to win the game no matter how far down they were. He asked them again, "Is it possible?" Their eyes lit up, and with a fire in their belly, the pushed on, determined to win. 

I hired that speaker and he delivered.  The changing energy of this sales force could be felt as the 
speaker continued to talk.

The speaker held up a 1x6 piece of board and started talking about the power of the mind to do seeming impossible acts, like breaking this board in half with only your hand. As he proceeded to ask if a woman would volunteer (there were only two in that group) to break this board. Both woman had taken Karate and that didn't work for him.  

He glanced around the room until his eyes lighted on me, the meeting planner. "Dawn, come on up here and let's do this", he said. Needless to say, I refused, but when the sales force started chanting for me, how could I not do it. By the time I got up to the the front, my knees were shaking. All I could think about was breaking my hand not the board. How I would humiliate myself in front of my group. How could I get out of this. 

The speaker started talking about Mohammed Ali when he would throw a punch, his aim wasn't on 
the face of his opponent for a knockout, but through the face and a few inches behind it. That's what 
made his punches so powerful. 

MEMORIES... and that's not the name of a song anymore!

Memories, memories... and that's not the name of a song anymore. It really bothers me when I can't remember someone's name or even a word. The worst is when I'm talking and I'm corrected. What I thought I said comes out something totally different.

My friends and I laugh at our memory loss. One of us will always fill in the blanks. Then we chuckle together about our "group" memory. I'm thinking it's not so funny anymore.

It worries me. Puzzles like Sudoku, scrabble blast and sequence games fill my life in an attempt to recover that brain function.

Fish oil was reputed to help with memory. I bought some with the right recommended levels of potency, opened up the bottle and about fainted. By god, they were horse pill size. A big gulp of water and a prayer that I wouldn't choke, but no. It wouldn't go down. Filled up the whole glass of water again and gave it another go. Well, I did get it down hoping all along that it wouldn't get stuck.

Had a great idea to puncture that huge pill and squeeze the oil onto a spoon. Worked. Swallowed with no problem and aghhh, gag. What a horrible taste. I'm talking FISHY at its worse. Tried everything to get that taste out of my mouth. No it seemed to linger on for hours. Then came the burp. Oh no. Here came that taste all over again.
I'm still looking at that bottle warily.

I tried Macha green tea, too. Didn't know that it was dried green tea leaves ground up into to a fine powder. Poured the hot water into the cup, added the right amount of the powder and whisked the heck out of it as per the instructions. Now mind you, it was first the color of a bright green chameleon. Frothed to become a lighter green foam that quickly dissolved to a putrid tanish green. Oh well. Ah, I settled down with my cup of memory tea. Took a sip ... what the heck, could grass taste any worse? I tried to add sugar didn't help! Maybe a little milk. Nope. Horrible hot crud. I could NOT finish it.

You know, maybe at this stage of my life, I'll just sit back and enjoy the quiet of my memory loss. Guess what I can't remember isn't that important after all.

A TIME TO DREAM

A good friend was talking yesterday about starting her dream and producing a solid business plan. Listening to her has inspired me to dream and to have a goal once again.

Important blocks of ten years weave in and out of my life - marriage, Arabian horse farm, international corporate marketing/communication job, traveling the world, owning a B&B, published author and columnist, RVing after retirement. Some overlapping the other. Indeed, it has been a great life.

Now, it seems as though I'm watching other peoples lives. I don't socialize. Not traveling. NOTHING (definition -a quantity of no importance) Nada, nil, naught, zero, nix, zip.

Sometimes I look around and think that I'm just waiting to die. Then introspective thoughts tell me, that's just not who I am. My Mother's grandfather clock sits in its place of honor in my house reminding me that time is a creative idea, not to mark off the days, but to dream.

My mother was joyful, happy, good natured, hard working and wanted more for herself and her children. Both she and my father were charismatic, optimistic, full of life people who believed in living life. Then again, that's a different story.

Two of my favorite quotes: one attributed to C. S. Lewis, "You are never too old to set another goal or to dream a new dream"; the other from the South Pacific song, Happy Talk, "Talk about things you'd like to do. You gotta have a dream. If you don't have a dream, how you gonna have a dream come true?"

When you push the universe forward with your dreams, watch out because it will quickly fill your life with opportunity. 

You may not believe this, but while I was writing this blog, an email clanging notice appeared on my screen. It was the editor of the local paper asking me if I would be interested in writing a monthly article... a paid writing assignment. Now, even stranger, while I was writing the email back to him, my voice mail alerted me of a new message. It was from the Author House Publishing asking me if I would like to move forward on publishing my book.

My hour-a-day writing commitment is starting off with a resounding bang!

That Cold Hug

My heart is heavy this afternoon. I'm incredibly sad. Hard to walk. My cheeks feel droopy and my eyesight is blurring. What is wrong? I did have a feeling before I left to see her but I wanted to meet with the hopes of making a new friend. A friend who shares a love of horses. The conversation was awkward; hard to maintain eye contact. The highlight was the big warm blooded Hanoverian gelding. He was nuzzling and open. Just like all animals, the connection is always honest, non-judgmental, happy to be with you, comfortable. With a hug she says goodbye, but the hug was cold. Not genuine. Extending my hand may have set the cold mood, but the answering hug was worse. Was it me? Was I exuding the uncomfortable air that hung between us? That feeling won't go away. I'm just going to let the blue funk take me. From past experiences, I can't fight it. It always comes hard, sweeping, engulfing.

The sun is shining this morning, those puffy white clouds that make the cobalt blue sky even more intense. Blue skies this morning, blue funk last night. One call from a mutual friend led me out of the depressing feeling that engulfed me. Everyone hides things, weird things, shameful things, things we just don't want anyone to know about. I believe that we all can read the energy of others, whether consciously or subconsciously. That feeling yesterday, was it because I read a troubled soul? One that used alcohol to hide the emptiness, the boredom, the losses in her life? Or maybe it was mirroring my feelings? My fear, my loss, my boredom.

I'm pulling myself into the now of existence. The only place I want to be. "Surround yourself in the now," I say. "You can do it." Really isn't that hard, but it does take a great deal of effort. Not living in the now has led me into the past, experiencing all those horrible feelings over and over again. "Not anymore," I say. "Not anymore." The only life I have is the one I create from this point onward to happy, content, active feelings and the anticipation of what exciting event is going to happen now.

Part 2, "Something Wicked This Way Comes"

A blur, a shapeless black blur moving.  I saw it out of the corner of my eye. But when I look over in that direction... nothing out of the ordinary. Same furniture, same window, same bookcase.

I'm drifting back to a memory of the bad guy and the evil spirit blurs in the Patrick Swayze/Demi Moore movie, "Ghost."

"What are you?" I spurt out loud, then think to myself, "Are you crazy? There's no one here." Egad, I'm loosing it now. Talking to no one. Just shadows.

What was that? In the far corner of the cabin, I know I heard the floor creek. Now that my eyes are playing tricks on me, are my ears too? Holding back the urge to speak up again, suddenly I gasp for air as I have forgotten to breathe. The sudden intake of air seems to echo throughout the house, bouncing along the walls.

Clutching my sweater together, I can feel my heart beat. "Well at least I'm still alive," I think. Then turn towards another blur that disappears.

I've got to get out of here; just get in the car and drive away. But I can't. The snow's too thick, my car is stuck. I'll make myself a cup of strong coffee. Doing ordinary things will surely dispel my vivid imagination. Going over to the small coffee pot and filling it with water, reaching into the cupboard for the Folger's, I'm startled by lights from a car reflecting on the wall then gone into the night. No car engine running, I hear nothing, just the wind, howling and moaning. Did I say moaning? I'm loosing it for sure now. Slowly, I peak through the window curtain. The snow is so thick, I can't see the edge of the deck. Great. now what?

The gun that I always carry is in the car, outside, in the car that  is stuck in the snowbank. Too far away.

(to be continued, yet again)

You are not alone.

My brother, Johnny, died at age 23 of cancer.


For years, tears would roll down my checks whenever I saw someone who reminded me of him, until someone very wise asked me if I could still picture how he looked. "Yes," I said. 


He then ask me if I could hear his voice, see his smile. "Yes I can," I felt the pleasure of this vision.


He continued to ask me if I asked Johnny a question do I know what he would answer. Thinking long and hard, and seeing Johnny in my mind's eye, hearing his voice, seeing his crooked smile, I responded, "Yes, I do know what he would answer." 


Then, he replied, "Your brother is always with you. You can see him, hear him and talk with him anytime you want."


I have never forgotten that moment. I love you Johnny. You are... always with me.

OH NO, I KILLED IT!

Limb by limb

I am now an official Killer. Yes, Christopher, my tree cutter told me so. When I was trying so hard to keep the ratty raccoons off my roof, I put a loose ring of tin around my spruce tree. Over the years, I'd have it removed and put back on loosely. It worked for the raccoons, but it did kill my beautiful tall tree.

I never thought in my wildest dreams that I would be a killer. Never had a killer thought, well, that's not true. There were the mean girls in Mission Beach Grade school that I'll never forget. After crying my eyes out, I did want to kill them. No, I really wanted to kill the words and looks they spewed out at me.

Standing on what?

I wanted killer looks in High School where I was friendly, but extremely shy and quiet. Too tall, bone skinny with greasy hair and acne, yes, it was not a pretty sight. By the time I went to college and help from a Charm School, Make-up and Hair training, Dance class, and singing lessons, (thanks Mother) I started to look and feel good. By the time I was hired by Disneyland in my Senior year of College, I had killer looks! My body had filled out, hair straightened and back combed, and that eye liner and eyebrow over my blond lashes brought out the tan California look. Going through the Disney Hospitality School back then, gave me  poise, confidence, and charisma when I interacted with people as a hostess/tour guide and in every job since.

As I got older, (like 23) the killer looks didn't matter, for the inner look was coming out. I followed my passion and went to work on on a dude ranch in Grant, Colorado, so I could be a horse wrangler. Even with all that college, all that charm stuff, all that hospitality training, in reality all I wanted was to be with horses! Go figure.

Christopher cut stairs to the top,
then starting at the top,
took it down in small pieces.

So now that I am THE tree killer, I've got to do my time. Every day I'll look out my window and miss my friend, the tall spruce. My other friends will miss the tall spruce, too. The Downy woodpecker that graced the frame of my window. The other birds who hopped and sang to the spruce, even the squirrel who will now have to find another ladder to run around on. 

Be careful what you do for there are consequences of your actions. Most of all, know that life is fragile! 

The Ring

My Granddaughter, Chelsea, is leaving soon for her first year at Stony Brook College in Long Island, NY. It's the start of only one of the many adventures in her life.

We had lunch today at her favorite Hamburger Place. Just the two of us. I mistakenly told her I liked her one line zingers in Facebook, such as: "We are the trifecta." referring to her best friends. and just this morning, "and then there was one." 

Chelsea told me, with tears welling up in her eyes, that it was unexpected that she would feel so sad about leaving her best friends. One who was going to Colorado University and the other to a catholic college in Washington, D.C.

We also talked about her Facebook comment, "All it took was two boxes for my room not to be mine anymore" and she further wrote in comments, "It's sad my room feels so empty but my dad said if I had lost all that stuff earlier, my room would've been a lot cleaner."

With that the laughter began!

After lunch we did a little shopping. Suddenly I remembered that I wanted to give her my ring. We were at the check out stand, when I told her. "I want you to have my ring," I blurted out and took the ring off my finger and gave it to her. Expressing what the ring meant to me, I said, "My ring reminds me of my horses I loved so much for it looks like a stirrup or cinch. It has a line of square rubies, my birthstone, down one side." Looking into her eyes, I sighed and told her, "It's a simple ring that has a lot of meaning for me." Then when she put it on, I quietly said, "When you're lonely or feeling sad, just look at my ring and know that my circle of love surrounds you." 

Not an original statement for long ago my step-mother, Alice gave me gold hoop ear-rings and told me that they represented the circle of love from her and my Dad. I wear them still today and rarely take them off. Once the back of one became so worn it wouldn't close. I had it fixed right away by Ken Nelson, my friend and goldsmith. He wouldn't take any money for it. Sometimes things that people say and do are "golden". 

And like Chelsea says in her Facebook album: "Summer 2010: The Night is Golden," from the minute she was born, my life has been golden with Chelsea!

Passing the Reins

Goodbye Buff, we will all miss you. Buff Rutherford, a 3rd generation Georgetown, Colorado resident died this week. He was 81 years old.

In the last two weeks of his life, he was still giving... like he always did. This time my 13 year old granddaughter, Olivia, was the object of his generosity.

When Livvy, cashed in her savings to buy an older Arabian mare, "Striking Lady" the start of her dream came true. The first thing she bought was a halter, lead and grooming tools. There was no money for a bridle and saddle.

Her Uncle Joe at Shadows Ranch, where she was keeping "Lady"gave her a small used saddle. It needed work. Grandma was worried about the leather, and would it be safe. There were parts missing. Thinking of the best person to evaluate the safety for her granddaughter, Grandma called her friend, Buff, the old cowboy, who gladly offered to look it over for us.

It was a match made in heaven for a little girl and a old cowboy. She hung on every word, as he explained what needed to be done. "I've got a lot of cinches," Buff said as he dug through a box of them. "Here's one that looks like it would fit." As he showed her the nearly new cinch, Buff smiled that quiet smile and told her, "You can have it."

Livvy asked about what a "dog-bit" looked like. With the customary patience, Buff was known for, he brought out a small box of bits and explained several. Then he took one he thought would work and said  it was hers to keep. Buff Offered to buy a bridle, saddle blanket and reins that Livvy could pay him for later. Grandma was overwhelmed and had to walk into the other room, to keep her tears to herself.

"I'm working at the event center, setting tables, napkins and helping Joe in the kitchen, " Livvy excitedly told Buff, "I will have the money for you."

As they walked into the computer room, the screen saver was alive with a slide show of memories. Buff and his beloved wife, Mary Lou, hunting with horses. Their life together from early-on to more recently. Friends, children, grandchildren all flashing on the screen for a moment or two, giving Buff such pleasure as he explained the ones that meant something even more special to him.

As we left, Livvy, eyes bright with joy, couldn't stop talking about Buff.

Arabian Mare - Lady and Olivia

We didn't pick up the saddle that next weekend, for Buff and Mary Lou went to Denver to watch their granddaughter ride in a horse show.

Buff and Grandma later the next week exchanged "Granddaughter" stories. As the stories came out, Buff said he really wanted to help Livvy get started. He remembered that riding bareback with a halter and lead as reins was how he learned to ride when he was a kid and so in love with horses. "An old cowboy gave me the gear I needed and explained everything to me. I want to do it for Livvy," Buff tells me.  "I also want to give her a book I enjoyed as a boy. She might enjoy it too." He is reliving his memories back then.

An act of kindness, as a Grandma, I will never forget ... neither will my granddaughter, Livvy.

Buff Rutherford, his haywagon, and my older granddaughter, Chelsea, who was only seven back then.

Something Wicked This Way Comes

The house feels heavy as though the air held secrets... Not good secrets. As though the whispered words I only feel not hear were pushing down on my chest. Something I don't want to know.

The floors sagged slightly. Just enough to throw you off balance. No reality here. A hodge-podge of rooms added on sporadically. Another tripper step is just a few inches high that leads into a back hallway and out the back door. A door where the deadbolt lock won't open. A door you can't get out.   Who built this? Is it their secret being whispered?

There are plenty of windows, big picture windows but it's a dark house. This cabin in the mountains along a dusty little-used dirt road sits on a triangular piece of pine tree covered land, yet the views are hidden by walls misplaced.

I've got the heat blowing hot from the wall heater. It's cold here... like it's seeping up from the floors, leaking through the walls. The cold, I can't get warm.

I'm uncomfortable, I want to leave. Why do I feel this way? I have to leave and soon. There is no reasonable explaination. I just feel it.

(to be continued)

If I were a Native American Child for a Day

by Chelsea Nugent, Age 10

June 29, 1682

As the sun crept across the room and kissed my face, I wake up with a sudden jolt. Visions spin in my head as fear raced through my body. My heart is pounding. I blink once or twice bringing myself back to reality, realizing it is only a dream. "Not only do the Navajos raid Hopi villages," I thought, "they raid my wonderful dreams, too."

My father, uncle, little brother and cousin left to farm the fields on the mesa. My mother, aunt and I are outside grinding corn as we eat our morning meal of leftover bread from yesterday. Soon my arm ached from grinding corn so I stopped to rest. "Mother, what are we going to bake today?" I asked. "We are going to bake piki bread from this blue corn," my mother replied still grinding her corn. "Shooting Star, start grinding your corn, the sooner we can get baking," my aunt scolded. I sighed deeply and began grinding my corn again.

After all the corn was ground, my mother, my aunt, and I began making piki bread. First, my mom mixed the corn meal with water to make the dough. Then, I flattened the dough until it was paper-thin, and my aunt placed the dough on the stove to bake. "Now remember half of the bread is for supper, and the rest is for the ceremony," my mother told my aunt and me.

Ceremony? What ceremony? Then it hit me. The Coming Home ceremony! We have it every July as part of our Hopi culture, and it was only four days away! I must have looked shocked because my mother asked, "What's wrong Shooting Star?" "Nothing," I replied quickly. "Why don't you go help grandfather weave," my mother suggested.

Once I was on the second level where my grandfather was, I stepped into the weaving room quietly. My grandfather looked up and motioned to the loom on the other side of the room. I knew he wanted me to work on the weaving that I started yesterday. Soon my weaving was almost finished and the dark room was getting very hot. "Grandfather, may I go outside?" I asked. He looked up and studied my weaving. "Yes, you have done enough today, Shooting Star," he answered in a raspy voice. When I was on the roof, I felt a lot better than being in that stuffy room. I looked up at the sun and noticed that it was towards the west. The delicious smells of supper were rising from the kitchen.

Suddenly it occurred to me that it was time for my father, uncle, little brother and my cousin to be coming back from farming. I looked across the mesa. At the very edge I could just make out four figures in the distance. My body filled with joy as I  climbed down the ladder with my long black hair flowing behind me and ran to the door followed by my mom, aunt and sister who clutched a Kachina doll in her hand. My father, uncle, cousin and little brother were just coming up to the door. We hugged each other and went inside for supper.

After a delicious meal of piki bread, corn, beans and pork, we sat around the sitting room telling stories and laughing, all happy to be together again.

We were safe from the raiding Navajos today, but sadly, you never know what tomorrow will bring.

Comments from the Clear Creek Courant Newspaper editor.
"You have every right to be ultimately proud of your granddaughter. What a delightful article! She should be writing children's books. She has a knack for simplicity and wonderful description."
Einar


January 27, 2003

Chelsea and the Horse Camp

First Day. First Lesson.

     Ben the horse, Chelsea the seven year old. Although Ben has tutored many seven year old children, Chelsea only has lived with dreams of horses.

     Those of you who have dreamed of having horses know what that's like. In dreams, everything works out right, you are instantly the expert, things are perfect. You and the horse are a team. Whatever you can picture in your mind always works.

     In reality, the camp is almost overwhelming at first. So many things to remember, all at once. No matter how much you want it, nothing seems to fit together. "Hands up? How high? Put my leg where? Elbow back? What? Put my seat down? Does she mean my bottom? Ugh, I forgot what the teacher just said!" Too many thoughts for Chelsea. It's in her eyes, " Why can't I get it? I want it so much."

     At the children's horse camp at Anchorage Farm in Pine Junction, Colorado, each child has a four day intensive experience with the horse - their "adopted" horse. This is not your average experience at a horse camp. This is not just trial rides or arena clip-clopping games. Here you learn all the parts of a horse from the large jowl full of huge teeth (except in the middle where the bit goes) to the vernacular of horse coloration - a paint, a pie-bald, a pinto, a bay, a buckskin. The children learn the names for all the various tack that goes on a horse or used around a horse. What goes in the horse must come out, so they learn feeding and cleaning stalls. It is still fun and necessary to keeping a horse. Whew! It's a very busy day.
     "Oh yes, Grandma, these are called reins not ribbons" Livvy, her three year old sister called them that. Chelsea is getting it and proudly reiterating her knowledge. "I knew what a saddle was, Grandma, but not all the parts to it. I now know how to put the saddle on a horse and take it off." She looks off in the direction of three tiers of saddles along the tack room wall. "Actually, I didn't know that there were so many different types of saddles."
     "When the horse pokes his nose out of the stall," Chelsea continues describing her morning, "his nostrils are quivering. When he touches my outstretched hand, he sort of snorts at the smell of me. Then he pushes his nose out even further and gives me that 'you're okay' look in his eyes.'" She stops and looks at me smiling, "He likes me, Grandma!" Her eyes shine with a brightness you only find in people who are passionate about what they are feeling.
     All the kids in the class have different personalities. Some demanding, others shy, some loud and  mouthy, still others intense. Yet, all with a common dream of "their" horse in mind. I sense an amazing amount of cooperation and genuine kindness in these young people to help one another.
     Some of the group have a horse with a halter and a lead rope. They are learning the proper way to hold the rope, to lead the horse, and to stop the horse. The perfect way to teach a child how to safely handle a horse or to correct the horse. Basic training. Building confidence every moment.
     Here they are taught, horse thinking. Quite different than people thinking.  Learning about the horse's basic instincts, how to interpret the animal's body language and what might be running through the horse's mind, builds skills and a sympathetic relationship of trust and friendship.
     One hour a day, each horse camper gets a one hour dressage lesson. How the horse moves, what makes him balance his weight, what makes him off balance, what pressure points does the horse move away from, how to feel the control of the horse through his mouth. 
     Although I try to be with Chelsea, she is not interested in being with me. "it's okay Grandma, if you want to sit on the high benches and watch my lessons." Then Chelsea is off to help groom the horse after her lesson, leading her horse to their outside paddock, and happily talking to other riders about horses.
     One photo opportunity, that I reluctantly tell you I missed, happened when I came into the grooming and saddling room to find the Gray Arabian Gelding, Two Blankets, in cross ties - two ropes from the wall to each side of the horses halter. Swarming all over him with so much love and affection were no less than six small girls. One very small girl, standing on a step stool on his left side, was brushing his back. Another was brushing his side. The tail was getting a good brush and one girl was even kissing his nose. And the horse...my god, the half closed ecstasy in his eyes, I cannot describe.
     It's nonstop busy here. Everyone has something to do, that is except me. I'm just sitting here thinking on my laptop computer.
     "Grandma," Chelsea runs into the living room where I am working. "Grandma, my counselor, Lindsey, found this horseshoe and gave it to me to keep." This indeed is a great find for my horse dreamer. "Can you keep it for me?" Without even a glance backwards, she is halfway out the door again, "See you Grandma, I've got to go help with the horses." 

     And off she goes making her dream world into a reality.


Photo notes: 
1) Cover Story and Cover Photo, "Colorado Serenity Lifestyle Magazine" June 1999.
2) Publisher's Note