DOGGONE.
Guard Dawg
March 6, 2010 by
The Dog Days of Winter
February 26, 2010 by
At some point, this afternoon, a girl put her torch down at her soldering bench, walked up the back steps of her house, wandered into a spare room a boy was busy renovating and said, “Let’s go for a walk. Let’s go for a walk and let’s take the Happy Dog and the Weenie Dog.”
So they did.
The sun flexed its puny little brink-of-spring muscles and the girl took a chance and wore nothing but wool and a teal dress.
When they arrived at the other side of town, the girl and the boy released the Happy Dog into the park.
The Happy Dog ran free and wild.
No other dog could keep up with his pace.
He frothed at the mouth.
He whirled and leaped in the February sunlight.
He peed on a couple of rocks.
He bit his sister on the bottom.
He even managed to get his own spit all over his face.
Then the Happy Dog turned into Psycho-Ewok-From-Hades (which is sort of like a Basilisk in its ability to cause death with a single glance).
The Weenie Dog, quaked and trembled atop her digger paws.
The girl quaked and trembled in her Birkenstocks.
The boy yawned, looked at his wrist watch and said he was hungry.
Then the Happy Dog used the facilities as the heavens above opened up and shone down on their chosen canine of goodness, gladness, sniffiness, and excellent Master Hunter skills.
And the Happy Dog looked out over his domain and
thought, “Idaho is a darn tootin fine place!”
And the humans were happy too and so was Weenie (even though she’s blurry in this photo).
And on the way home, they all stopped at the squirrel tree and laughed
out loud as five of the pests poured out of the squirrel hole and ran up the tree trunk.
And they all had burgers or kibble for dinner
and it was a good day.
________________
DEDICATED TO CY
BECAUSE HE LOVES FARLEY SO
Thoughts on Slowing Down
October 16, 2009 by
I guess that sometimes, when your husband gets on his bike to go run an errand, it really means he’s going across town to buy you a 1973 Volkswagen bus.
I would like to introduce you to Talulah:
This is the second old Volkswagen I have owned in my life and it will be the third that I have driven (a boyfriend, somewhere along the line, had a 1970ish Westfalia that I drove all over Saskatoon and Western Canada). I know, I know. You’re all wondering why on earth I would want to drive a shabby, undependable, old vehicle around town. The truth is, I find there to be something terribly romantic about driving old shabby cars. It makes me feel eccentric like Maude. It makes me feel like I’m embracing a decade older than the one I’m living in. Plus, when I’m sitting in an old Volkswagen, I’m in my happy place. Seriously. Once you’ve experienced it, you’ll understand. When I’m driving Talulah, I can’t wipe the smile off my face. There are many things in life that make me extremely happy, old VW’s are one of them.
She’s got a fold down bed in the back. Farley loves it. He’s never had such a spacious ride. She also boasts a flip-down table and a few spare seats, plus storage galore. She needs some love and attention, a pinch of new paint and some new interior decor…but she’s mine-all-mine and I love her to the bone (or steel frame, in this case).
Typically, she’s a beast to drive. She’s fumy. She needs plenty of time to warm up when I start her. There’s zero power steering but a true bus wheel with a nob which makes it easier to take the corners in town. I’m toning my upper body just by taking her to the grocery store for balsamic vinegar…
The more I think about it, the more I realize that the world would be a better place if we all drove old Volkswagens. There are many styles to choose from but the spirit in each one of them is the same: It’s a zesty and sassy little VW spirit that helps a girl realize that there’s no rush!
Literally!
You can’t get anywhere very fast in one of these vehicles. So you might as well enjoy the ride and look out the windows as the scenery creeps by. Additionally, I like to think that with that big dumb smile on my face, I’m helping make the world a cheerier place. Smiles are contagious. So is waving merrily at strangers and saying hi to grumpy looking women when they’re wearing cranky pants.
I wish I could pile you all in the back and coast through the sunshine with you today. It’s Friday! Put an extra little swivel in your hips when you walk and pour a little sass into your earl grey tea, as well as milk and honey. Smile. Say hello to strangers. And when you’re feeling rushed and panicked, take a second to breathe deep and realize that there’s no hurry. Enjoy the ride. Make the world a lovely place.
With all our hearts and gaskets,
Jillian & Talulah
:::EDIT:::
I have received a torrent of responses to this blog post and ‘Old German Junk’ in general — I had no idea that so many of you have experienced an old VW at some point in your life or happen to own one, or dream of owning one in the future! What a delight! Thanks so much for your kind words. I just came in from telling Talulah all about how much you adore her. If she had a horn, she’d have beeped it madly.
Thanks thanks thanks for your sweetness, as usual!
Tra la la!
J
October 13, 2009 by
RW and I returned from our antelope hunt in Wyoming very late on Sunday night. I spent most of yesterday processing the entire experience in my heart, soul and mind. I bird hunt, quite often with RW and sometimes I take my shotgun and harvest birds alongside him but this was my first big game hunt and the experience was profound. We took two antelope from Wyoming and I’ve spent the past couple of days putting words to paper in an attempt to convey the holiness of the event to you. I’m very aware that some of you are vegetarians or are opposed to hunting so know that the following photographs (tastefully taken) are part of my life experience and the words I have written to accompany the images are based on what I felt and observed while hunting the antelope in Wyoming. This is no attempt to affect your opinion on the matter of hunting and/or consuming meat, rather, it’s an attempt to convey the spiritual nature of harvesting animals and being part of an energy realm that has always existed, since the beginning, between all living things. The hunt, without further adieu:
[wild BLM horses on the run]
[watering the dogs]
[Robert and Pene loping through the sage]
[Wyoming sage flats for as far as the eye can see]
[RW building a fire in sub-freezing temperatures at sunset]
[warming up before hopping in bed]
[the rude awakening to snow and frigid temperatures on Sunday morning]
[Surprised!]
[that jet black eye]
[rolling home to Idaho with it’s gracious mountains]
[The last quarter of an antelope burger that I just ate for lunch. It was delicious.]
I just ate a frozen apple for breakfast.
It’s a cold morning in Wyoming, just South of the Wind Range. Robert and I are hunting antelope and are, as usual, classically under prepared for a weekend of camping when it comes to meal preparation. We forgot to bring breakfast, it’s freezing cold. Hence, the icy apple.
…..
It’s been a long night. We have parked on a low ridge above a BLM guzzler* on the undulating sage flats of Wyoming. Desolate, cold, barren country. I’m very warm in my down sleeping bag with Robert beside me and Penelope curled up behind my knees inside my bag. I usually wake up freezing on nights like these while camping but after eating dinner around a sage fed fire the only part of my body that is frigid in the night air is the very tip of my nose.
At one point in the night I wake up to star shine pushing through our tinted canopy windows and the low grunts of an antelope buck ushering his harem to and from the guzzler a quarter mile below our encampment. It’s magic. I sit up in my sleeping bag and attempt to peer out the window, hoping I can see the herd in the starlight. Tawny ghosts move with a wild sort of choreography down by the troughs; I shiver, and whisper at RW, “Can you hear them?”
Wild horses now, a merry and stout band,
curious about our human scent, our cold bed of ashes where
we cooked and ate dinner, the scent of dogs and territory marked
by Farley on low Wyoming sage.
Robert is first out of bed in the morning. I roll over and try to squeeze the last of the warmth out of my sleeping bag before peeling myself out of that feathery cocoon to put on a second long underwear layer, a windproof fleece, a down jacket, and down booties; my hiking boots are solid blocks of leather and rubber in the corner of the truck bed. They’ll stay there for the rest of the trip. In the night a cold layer of snow has descended upon us. A blanketing of the eyesight is what it really is. White precipitation blended with golden grasses and ink blots of sage, as far as the eye can see, will make spotting antelope more difficult. We round up the dogs, hop in the truck and begin to drive.
We catch a glimpse of a herd. Two bucks. Seven does. And before we know it, nine antelope burst into a 55MPH gallop over a ridge of sage.
They saw us coming a mile away, literally
and the men told the women to run.
The herd structure is very patriarchal. One buck will take on a harem of does and serve as a mate and protector of his ladies. He’s a true gentleman at all times. He stands atop ridge lines keeping watch for predators as his does feed, carefree below him. When the herd runs from prey, he places himself between his does and the threat. Watching herd behavior with these animals is fascinating, I’m drawn into pronghorn culture like a moth to the flame.
In all this hunting and stalking and laying bare of primal sense in a desolate landscape I can feel a wildness stirring in parts me; wildness that has, for years, been laid to genetic rest in my tightly coiled chains of DNA. The urge to stalk, hunt, gather and harvest seems to wash over me, solidly, and I take pleasure in squinting hard into the snow scape to spot white rumps, black cheek patches, bucks on ridge lines watching over the womenfolk — pronghorn.
When Robert finally fires his shots, we hurry to make sure life has ended swiftly. We follow the split hoof tracks over sage and snow, blinded by fists of weather as it plants firm, frigid punches in our eyes. The wind rises up and pulls invisible words from our mouths. We resort to waving our hands in the air in order to communicate in the wind and snow. We push through a small scale blizzard with low visibility to our first doe. She lies still on her side, her last handful of breaths are shallow and then cease all together. Her eyes are calm and jet black. I inspect her countenance, her last glance up into a flurry filled sky is gentle. I’m overcome by the holiness of the moment, by the harvest of a magnificent animal, by her matchstick legs, the stoutness of her body, the swirls of vanilla in her tawny coat and the coarseness of her eyelashes. I lay my hands on her face and feel the resonance of her animal warmth before it fades to cold. Right there, in that blizzard, on my knees in the sage, I offer my thanks. I take up the energy of her dwindling body heat into my cold hands. I thank the Creator.
I can feel the thankfulness radiating out of me.
In the distance, her buck, her protector stands.
Watching, unafraid, compassionate.
As the snow falls and the wind blinds I’m more aware than I’ve ever been of life cycles, energy cycles, my place as a human, my call to promote and practice ethical hunting, my instincts as an animal.
I’m overwhelmed by the courage it takes to be part of the food chain in this manner:
To be the one to strike the fatal blow upon a wild and free animal.
To view the beast as an animal and to be free, in that moment, from thoughts of anthropomorphism and childish sentiments.
To view my food as more than the busy aisles of a grocery store.
To be part of the process in harvesting it, without a cashier giving me a sum at the end of my checkout, without unwrapping my food from plastic packaging, without being asked, “Will that be credit or debit?”
To be filled with sympathy when a bullet isn’t as true as intended.
To sometimes have to end a life with bare hands when the bullet fails — like my husband does when his second shot at our second doe fails to kill immediately.
This omnivore has no dilemma, but she does have a spiritual connection to the tenderloin medallion she’ll eat for dinner tonight.
When she consumes that hard won meal, she’ll whisper thanks and then she’ll join a circle of energy that’s older than herself.
Older than the hills.
As old as the breath that first breathed it.
*A watering hole established by the Bureau of Land Management on open range for wildlife, bands of wild horses and burros.
Wednesday’s Soup (not full of woe)
October 2, 2009 by
Well, as you know, RW came home from a fire on Wednesday, quite unexpectedly. We celebrated his return by taking Farley hunting in a beautiful area up in our mountains.
I love the first snow because no matter the date, or the plummeting temperatures, it always manages to catch everything off guard. We get caught with our pants down, figuratively speaking. We realize we should have picked those tomatoes, we should have canned a couple more pints of plums…we should have….we should have.
Even the wildflowers are guilty of wishful thinking.
“I should have sowed more of my seeds. One more bloom wouldn’t have hurt.”
The aspens are lanky beauties as always, with their heads in a continual rush towards blond this time of the year.
Some are embarrassed to still be green, with the onset of snow though it will only cap the mountain tops for a few days before melting away and flowing down the hillsides in creeks that will join rivers that will meet the sea.
All things seem to wear the first, fine dust of crystals like crowns. Royal when caught in their natural state. Kings and queens of the forest crunch underfoot as I carry myself over the hill crest into the spruces (so serious and quiet with their snow loads).
The deer, somewhere, behind that tree over there, raise their small black noses from the forage and wonder why I walk on two legs instead of four.
And a long line of ladies wave me on.
Farley, wet with effort and snow spray from low branches, turns his face into the wind to catch scent as it flings itself off a handful of paunchy ruffed grouse.
He steps forward, with sureness, locating the scent. His stubby tail is the only indicator of how hard his heart is beating with excitement. And then he locks up, his body tense, not a muscle moving. I lean into my steps and listen to the long draughts of air he sucks in through his nose, that scent must be delicious. He drinks it like a thirsty man. “Right there,” his body says. He’s waiting for Robert who will walk ahead, through the brush, flush the bird and shoot it from the sky. Farley will hold staunch until he is given the command to fetch.
And then he brings home the bacon.
And holds it in his mouth until we reach down and command him to drop it, still warm, into our hands.
RW inspects the harvest and pops it in his bag. Farley hears the words, “Get on.” And he takes to the forest like his heels wear wings, to do it all again. For the love of birds. For the love of us.
In the meanwhile, my feet and hands are very cold. My cheeks feel wind kissed because it’s blowing cold up in the mountains, out of the shelter of the valley. In the distance, the trees have faded into old age, and the meadows are white lace on the edge of sundown.
But even in all this white, there’s so much color to behold and my heart is bold with RW nearby. I hear him call out commands to our dog as I stop to inspect nature.
Before long, it’s time to drive down the mountains, to our warm little home and our toasty little dinner plans. We load the dog, hop in the cab, turn on the heat and coast down the hills into town.
We reach home and warm up with a fresh batch of potato soup, toasted homemade bread, lavender tea and a nip of port.
Cold Weather Potato Soup:
1 tbsp butter
1 cup celery, chopped
1 1/2 cups green onions (white part and 2 inches of green)
4 cups potatoes (peeled and diced)
1 cup carrot (chopped)
3/4 tsp dried thyme
1/4 tsp black pepper (I usually do a full tsp)
1 tsp dried dill
1/2 tsp salt (skip this if you aren’t using a low sodium chicken broth)
4 cups chicken or veggie broth (best if you make this yourself)
1 cup buttermilk
Melt butter in a large pot, add onions and celery. Cook and stir for 5 minutes or until veggies begin to soften. Add broth, potatoes, carrots, thyme, salt and pepper. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat to medium low, cover and simmer for 20 minutes. Working in batches, transfer food to a blender and puree until smooth. Return to pot, stir in buttermilk and dill. Simmer for a few more minutes.
Serve with fresh baked bread or buttermilk biscuits. If you find the soup to be hothothot, cool it off with an extra drizzle of buttermilk.