Monthly Archives: November 2011

The trailer rocks with another explosive series of clangs punctuated by one pealing whinny, as the horses inside stomp with impatience and their own worries. I back away. Put me in any city and I’ll hail you a cab in even the most dire of neighborhoods. Offer me symphony tickets and I may well be able to hum the opening bars. But I’m no expert with trailers and horses. What would make me happiest right now is not to set foot anywhere near the trailer. As far as I’m concerned, while these may be my horses, Carol seems eminently more qualified to handle them. Besides, it’s her trailer. “Go ahead,” I say, indicating the trailer now jangling as if possessed. “Be my guest.” (more…)

Despite the sunny weather and green pastures of late June, it feels like Christmas. My gift box is the rusty yellow horse trailer towed by a dented, aged, blue Chevy pickup that has just turned into our ranch headquarters. When the truck pulls to a halt near our barn, the trailer keeps moving, rocking side to side from the agitated stomping of what’s inside: my mustangs.

You’ll notice that I’m saying mustangs in the plural here, which is not a typo. That’s because on the day nine months ago when I first entered the Cañon City penitentiary gates of my own free will, I was overcome with remorse. How could I take just one horse, exposing him to manage the rigors of joining a new band on his. It didn’t seem right. (more…)

Thank goodness for the howling wind and ripping snow slashing across the fields. After all, it’s days like these that make splitting and stacking wood worthwhile.

We are still gnawing away at the pile of bucked logs that represent but a few of the thousands of beetle-kill trees removed from the ranch’s 360 acres of dark timber. I love splitting wood, or, to be perfectly correct, I love using our log splitter to split wood. It gives me kinship with the chipmunks who’ve been diligently storing seeds for the winter. Stacking the wood on the breezeway, knowing that at first drifts will pile up behind them, gives me a sense of properly putting by for the winter. Those stacks are better than a calendar. As they’re depleted they’ll no longer block the snow from the walkway to our front door. And that’s a sure sign we’ve built enough fires that surely spring will arrive one day soon.

I have a strong sense today of what the near future holds for me. First, some chapped skin from shoveling snow as my cheeks are scoured by icy particles. Then, a rip roaring fire as my reward. Last July I cut several armfuls of rhubarb, sugared it and cooked it down to a beautiful pink compote, then froze it all. Once I’ve thawed my fingers, I’ll be baking a rhubarb pie, to bring back the glory days of summer.

The poetry of wildflowers

“That does sound good, Al.  But you know what?”  Here I pause, to build the suspense.  “I’m going to have what I had last time!”  And Al, despite his 84 years, knows exactly what that is.  A cherry phosphate.

There’s a precise order to what follows.  First, he squirts a liberal dose of sweet, scarlet, cherry syrup into a tall glass.  Then, he ceremoniously brings forth the small glass bottle with phosphate from its hiding place and shakes a few drops into the syrup.  He peers up at me quizzically till I tell him to stop.  The more phosphate, the sourer the soda. (more…)

As soon as I say I’ve come for a soda, Al squares himself up behind the counter, ready for action.  In front of him is a glass-topped freezer for the ice cream tubs.  There are three flavors only: strawberry, chocolate and vanilla.  As with the rest of the shop the flavors are nothing fancy, yet everyone is guaranteed one they like.  On a narrow counter behind him are the tools of his trade:  the shake maker and the ice shaver, various stainless steel containers for mixing floats and malteds, and tall glasses, some tapered at the bottom, others straight, for pouring the thick, foaming result into.  On the scarred and flaking cream-colored wall hangs a black felt board with red plastic letters stuck in it, crookedly listing the offerings:  phosphates, malts, shakes, floats and sundaes.  There’s enough room to list various syrup flavors, too.

Al plants his hands firmly on the ice cream freezer, eager to get going and perhaps using the freezer for a little support at the same time.   He eyes me expectantly, bushy grey brows waggling.  Even if you’re a regular, which I am, Al always allows that just this once you might surprise him. (more…)