I was thinking about the Wild West again together for several reason. One, the huge snow storm that's headed toward us on Thursday or Friday reminds me of weather in the Wild West. And I loved all the cold and snow there. Something about that was just perfect and didn't seem so inconveniencing. The other reason I was thinking about it was because AlaskaSam sent me some pictures of all the snow in his yard and told me about more that's coming and it seems appealing. The last reason I was thinking about the Wild West is because Daddy-O changed his desktop picture to a horse drawn sleigh in the snow.
When I lived there one of the cool things that happened was my horse drawn sleigh ride experience. There was a really OLD sled outside of town in a field and I went out there and had some pictures taken my first Christmas. I was wearing my pink boots and a pink cowboy hat. My intent was to use them as a Christmas card but I never did. Anyway, I told some of my students I did that and they saw the pictures and thought how cool they were because that was stuff they never thought about. A sled to them is typical winter transportation and didn't think I would think of it as a novelty.
With that in mind, when we had a huge snow a few weeks before Christmas, I suddenly had banging on my front door on Sunday evening. When I opened it, there were about 7 kids standing on the stoop giggling, They "caroled" and then told me there was a surprise. They stepped aside and there was a horse drawn sleigh. They were going around town with hay in flatbeds of pickup trucks and riding there and they took turns riding in the horse drawn sleigh. They were with a youth group from a local church and they were also my students. It was my turn to ride in a REAL horse drawn sleigh, not some old abandoned one outside of town. So I got dressed and the bundled me up in warm blankets and then we rode around town singing carols for about 30 minutes.
The horse clip-clopped and the owner/ driver had tied sleigh-bells to the reins and so we jingled all the way. It was exhilarating and magical. It was a complete Currier and Ives experience. They even let me sip hot chocolate out of their thermos. We laughed and giggled and sang. It was cold and the smell of crisp air, and the horse whinnied, and I couldn't have experienced anything better than that moment.
When they dropped me off, all the kids shouted "Marry Christmas" as they rode out of sight.
We haven't had any significant snow yet this year but I have hope. I'm sure I won't be going on a horse drawn sleigh ride when and if we do, but I think I'll always remember this night when the snow falls (or when it's supposed to).
One my best memories ever...
Maggie
Showing posts with label wild west. Show all posts
Showing posts with label wild west. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Sunday, January 8, 2012
The Shop Teacher
We hired a new English teacher on a one year contract because we had one go on a year long maternity leave. Well, this woman we hired is totally and completely wonderful, awesome and amazing. And she just took a new job and is leaving us.
Our teaching staff is very close minded and conservative and sorta angry. I don't really have a bond with any teacher except with the one who is living. I'm very close to one of the secretaries but otherwise I'm pretty disjointed from the teaching staff. So I am REALLY going to miss the departing teacher.
I've been missing the Wild West lately, a lot. I've missed different things about the area and people, but I miss many of the people I taught with. My best Wild West friend was the Science teacher (she's since moved away, too) and we had a wonderful time in and out of work, even if we spend a lot of time kvetching about the students. I really liked our librarian, the Business teacher and the history teacher. Our home ex teacher was pretty nice, and I like several of the elementary school teachers. And I just adored our shop teacher. Even if he was an alcoholic.
Yes, the shop teacher was an alcoholic. He was this short, loud, dirty old man, actually. Never a dirty old man with the students, but he was with the adult females. I don't think he'd ever follow through with anything, but he liked to leer and talk. I liked him, anyway. He had great stories to tell- fictitious or real we never really knew- and he had a good sense of humor. He wasn't afraid to stand up to our boss, either.
On Wednesday nights we had "Fine art Meetings" and any teacher who wanted to attend was welcome, which involved eating dinner and drinking at the bar. I'm not sure how "art" it was but it sure was fine. He was a real hoot! If he had enough scotch in him, he would tell everyone to watch out because he was on hour 42 of his 36 hour Cialis.
He was a good shop teacher. He let the kids make anything they wanted and he made sure they were safe and knew how to use the equipment. Yes he was lose with rules and policies and well... everything, but the kids who came out of his classes could build a house if they had to. One girl made a solid cherry wood roll top desk for her father. Kids used the lathe and made bowls and other dishes. Seriously, he let the kids make anything, even if meant he was standing in the shop room with a cigarette dangling from his mouth showing them how to use a scroll saw..
He also had a HUGE heart. He would do anything for anyone. He made all the sets for our school plays and never charged the drama department anything. He made stuff for folks all over town, including kitchen cabinets. He let the kids make me a solid oak bookcase and then delivered it to my house. It's not his fault the kids stole the wood from the Catholic church construction project. It's his fault that when he learned they did that he didn't make them take it back... *ahem* He made shelves for my classroom and a cool wooden bowl for me. When my mom died and I ended up being gone for 2 weeks, he went to the Superintendent and told her I could have as many of his sick days as I needed so I could get paid for every day off I needed, whether it was two weeks or 2 months.
I think he liked me because I didn't judge him. I let him be and liked him and went to fine arts meetings most Wednesday. I didn't care that he was drunk by 7pm most nights and a few of those the bartender called me to help Shop Teacher home. He was a funny old guy, with a big heart, and some sad past life stuff. His wife was a sprite and she didn't take gruff from anyone- she was a hoot, too! I'd write his lesson plans for him each week because he didn't know how to turn on a computer and didn't even know the DOE had state shop standards. He'd write down what he was going to teach the kids that week and I'd type it up, so it looked all nice and formal. Oh, and he'd usually write a couple words on a block of wood, give it to a kid to give to me. That's his "rough" draft.
I'm missing him along with the rest of the Wild West, and I hope he's doing great and enjoying retirement!
Maggie
Our teaching staff is very close minded and conservative and sorta angry. I don't really have a bond with any teacher except with the one who is living. I'm very close to one of the secretaries but otherwise I'm pretty disjointed from the teaching staff. So I am REALLY going to miss the departing teacher.
I've been missing the Wild West lately, a lot. I've missed different things about the area and people, but I miss many of the people I taught with. My best Wild West friend was the Science teacher (she's since moved away, too) and we had a wonderful time in and out of work, even if we spend a lot of time kvetching about the students. I really liked our librarian, the Business teacher and the history teacher. Our home ex teacher was pretty nice, and I like several of the elementary school teachers. And I just adored our shop teacher. Even if he was an alcoholic.
Yes, the shop teacher was an alcoholic. He was this short, loud, dirty old man, actually. Never a dirty old man with the students, but he was with the adult females. I don't think he'd ever follow through with anything, but he liked to leer and talk. I liked him, anyway. He had great stories to tell- fictitious or real we never really knew- and he had a good sense of humor. He wasn't afraid to stand up to our boss, either.
On Wednesday nights we had "Fine art Meetings" and any teacher who wanted to attend was welcome, which involved eating dinner and drinking at the bar. I'm not sure how "art" it was but it sure was fine. He was a real hoot! If he had enough scotch in him, he would tell everyone to watch out because he was on hour 42 of his 36 hour Cialis.
He was a good shop teacher. He let the kids make anything they wanted and he made sure they were safe and knew how to use the equipment. Yes he was lose with rules and policies and well... everything, but the kids who came out of his classes could build a house if they had to. One girl made a solid cherry wood roll top desk for her father. Kids used the lathe and made bowls and other dishes. Seriously, he let the kids make anything, even if meant he was standing in the shop room with a cigarette dangling from his mouth showing them how to use a scroll saw..
He also had a HUGE heart. He would do anything for anyone. He made all the sets for our school plays and never charged the drama department anything. He made stuff for folks all over town, including kitchen cabinets. He let the kids make me a solid oak bookcase and then delivered it to my house. It's not his fault the kids stole the wood from the Catholic church construction project. It's his fault that when he learned they did that he didn't make them take it back... *ahem* He made shelves for my classroom and a cool wooden bowl for me. When my mom died and I ended up being gone for 2 weeks, he went to the Superintendent and told her I could have as many of his sick days as I needed so I could get paid for every day off I needed, whether it was two weeks or 2 months.
I think he liked me because I didn't judge him. I let him be and liked him and went to fine arts meetings most Wednesday. I didn't care that he was drunk by 7pm most nights and a few of those the bartender called me to help Shop Teacher home. He was a funny old guy, with a big heart, and some sad past life stuff. His wife was a sprite and she didn't take gruff from anyone- she was a hoot, too! I'd write his lesson plans for him each week because he didn't know how to turn on a computer and didn't even know the DOE had state shop standards. He'd write down what he was going to teach the kids that week and I'd type it up, so it looked all nice and formal. Oh, and he'd usually write a couple words on a block of wood, give it to a kid to give to me. That's his "rough" draft.
I'm missing him along with the rest of the Wild West, and I hope he's doing great and enjoying retirement!
Maggie
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
A Wild West summer of long ago
Thinking about a Wild West summer...
I would feel like I was going to melt into summer warmth. Magically, the sun is shining and the snow dissolves, leaving brown hues in its wake. The wind turns warm and humid, and is sparse. I question whether I really feel a breeze or it's so hot, I imagine a cooling presence. The cold air that had so frozen my lungs just that previous winter not so long ago, becomes hot and sticky, leaving me parched. Sweat immediately forms on my brow and I look over the brown fields, feeling the heat of the sun on my shoulders and the heat radiating up from the cooked cracked earth. Summer was having an intensity matched by nothing other than the fires of Hell.
The plains are still rolling and the shades of brown are many. The fields are dirty dark brown, and as the hills raise and lower, the hues become darker and lighter. The round bales of hay dot the landscape, giving it a polka dotted look. And the pattern of bales at first appears random, but upon closer examination the rows of bales are symmetrical and aligned, making a quilt like pattern across the otherwise unadorned fields, in a covering of summer.
The humidity and summer sun has done its job and cooked the earth until it cracked, leaving gouges running through the hardened, dried mud. Tractors and long ago rains worked together to leave the huge ruts, like craters, making the terrain uneven and broken, almost scarred. Not even the brilliant blue sky, like a tall drink of water, can ease the hotness, the lines of heat reverberating from the ground. The scrub brushes wilt in the mid day sun and not a tumbleweed blows across my path. The sage brush is limp, tired from the beating it received from the summer's intensity. Land as far as the eye can see, miles of brown with golden dots of hay, lasting forever, until it joins hands with the blue sky at the horizon.
Maggie
I would feel like I was going to melt into summer warmth. Magically, the sun is shining and the snow dissolves, leaving brown hues in its wake. The wind turns warm and humid, and is sparse. I question whether I really feel a breeze or it's so hot, I imagine a cooling presence. The cold air that had so frozen my lungs just that previous winter not so long ago, becomes hot and sticky, leaving me parched. Sweat immediately forms on my brow and I look over the brown fields, feeling the heat of the sun on my shoulders and the heat radiating up from the cooked cracked earth. Summer was having an intensity matched by nothing other than the fires of Hell.
The plains are still rolling and the shades of brown are many. The fields are dirty dark brown, and as the hills raise and lower, the hues become darker and lighter. The round bales of hay dot the landscape, giving it a polka dotted look. And the pattern of bales at first appears random, but upon closer examination the rows of bales are symmetrical and aligned, making a quilt like pattern across the otherwise unadorned fields, in a covering of summer.
The humidity and summer sun has done its job and cooked the earth until it cracked, leaving gouges running through the hardened, dried mud. Tractors and long ago rains worked together to leave the huge ruts, like craters, making the terrain uneven and broken, almost scarred. Not even the brilliant blue sky, like a tall drink of water, can ease the hotness, the lines of heat reverberating from the ground. The scrub brushes wilt in the mid day sun and not a tumbleweed blows across my path. The sage brush is limp, tired from the beating it received from the summer's intensity. Land as far as the eye can see, miles of brown with golden dots of hay, lasting forever, until it joins hands with the blue sky at the horizon.
Maggie
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Undercover as an English Teacher
Did I ever tell ya'll that people in the Wild West, in the town where I lived, thought I worked for the FBI? Go ahead and laugh. It's too hilarious. Yup, me- an overweight, pink wearing, friend to Lady Clairol, shoe loving me working for the Feds. You people read my blog- ME and FBI agent???!? (And if you are new to my blog and reading this post as your very first one- welcome and it's about time you got here...Read some of the past stuff and you will totally see what I mean when I say I'm NOT an Federal agent!) I was flattered. Or impressed. Or scared. Or ready to use it to my advantage and have some laughs, as long as I don't get killed in the process since these folks do believe in the old adage of the "3 S's": shoot, shovel and shut up.
Some years ago near where I lived in the Wild West there was a dust up between some local extremists and the Feds. It ended peacefully after an 81 day standoff with the FBI, but people around there were wary of outsiders. This was also a ranching/ farming town and people there are really of the old Wild West mentality (I am dead damn serious here folks!) and they hated the government to begin with. Add their little encounter with Feds/ CIA/ ATF and other government employees a few years ago, and their trust of strangers was limited to none. And I was about as an outsider as could be.
Now think about it: I moved there with the only reason being I wanted to teach high school English and had always wanted to see the Wild West. That school, in that community, offered me a job so there I was. I had no family there. I was single (still am) and went there alone. I'm college educated and from what they considered a big city and for no good reason I came to smalltownsville, Wild West? Add this to the fact that I kept pretty much to myself and got lots of packages in the mail. (This has been observed as being unusual by the locals). I had no 'visitors' from home. At that time, I had no formal education in teaching, just 5 years in the college arena. And no one had any proof of any of this. They had my word on where I came from and my background. Anyone can put anything on a resume. Did I mention I was pretty closed mouthed about personal stuff when I visited the bars, almost amounting to being cryptic? I was also pretty politically aware and not afraid to voice that opinion. Oh yeah- and I'd been to big cities like DC, NYC and Boston and can talk with more knowledge of one who just went on a holiday but like someone who might have *audible gasp* lived there! These people decided I worked for the Feds. Most people still even thought it when I left, because when I left, I LEFT. No looking back.
It didn't help much that when I went to shoot a gun I had dead on aim. I mean I hit 11 out of 12 beer cans at 200 yards and 6 out of 6 Gatorade bottles at 350 yards. And it was the first time I ever shot a gun in my life. These folks didn't believe it after watching that display of marksmanship and the word got out. So, they all decided I committed some big 'wrong' while working in DC or at the NYC field office and was banished here. I swear to Goddess I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.
It doesn't matter that I didn't look like a Fed- I'm not built like a Fed. I had great aim, I'm from a big city and I knew stuff. It was too funny. And because strangers came to town every so often and then leave suddenly without an explanation or a trace... Well, they thought I was a Fed, like these others were. (I have no idea if these others were Feds or not, but hey, who knows?) And see, I didn't circulate much with the locals- or get close to them. I had some teacher friends but that is to be expected- right? But when it comes to town folks, I had very few friends. And the people outside of school I kept company with (ie: read "men" here) was a guy who worked for the environmental branch of the government (what the hell is the ENVIRONMENTAL branch???) and a local law enforcement officer; they thought the only reasons I dated him was professional because I might need some help from the local cop shop- also according to the local rumor mill. The other guy I was associated with came from out of town and was supposedly working on a construction crew building a government owned building...You see the connection here? This is the stuff people talked about in the bars, at the grocery store and at the post office. I was become part of the local lore around there.
Why the FBI? That's simple: Since the skirmish that involved the Feds happened ended peacefully, some of those towns people involved were still around so therefore the FBI had agents in town undercover to keep an eye on these people so it didn't happen again. The FBI had the disaster in Waco, the Unabomber, and then Ruby Ridge so they wanted to make sure to never have an incident like that again so the Feds lived among the natives in order to prevent another siege. That is the thinking and the mind set. True or BS, who knows, but it's what the people there believed!
So there I was ready to protect and serve the country by keeping peace and teaching poetry to the masses in the Wild West. When I was home for Christmas that first year, I remember sharing this story with a friend, who, after his hysterical laughter ceased, decided I should screw with these folks. He said he was going to start sending me mail with simply Washington, DC and a long number typed as the return address. He swore he was going to give me a navy jacket with the bright yellow FBI. He said I should walk around and wear mirrored sunglasses and talk into my wrist. I thought I should have lots of handsome, sexy men visit me because then they could gossip that I was getting laid WITH a fellow agent! (I didn't know any men that fit the description but it would've be hysterical if I had).
I always wondered if there was a real agent around town. I would've loved to meet this person for giggles and grins. I certainly took a lot of heat off of him or her. I should've gotten metal or a check from the government for doing my civic duty!
And that what people in the Wild West talked about in the bars for a long time: their high school English teacher was really an FBI agent.
Maggie
Some years ago near where I lived in the Wild West there was a dust up between some local extremists and the Feds. It ended peacefully after an 81 day standoff with the FBI, but people around there were wary of outsiders. This was also a ranching/ farming town and people there are really of the old Wild West mentality (I am dead damn serious here folks!) and they hated the government to begin with. Add their little encounter with Feds/ CIA/ ATF and other government employees a few years ago, and their trust of strangers was limited to none. And I was about as an outsider as could be.
Now think about it: I moved there with the only reason being I wanted to teach high school English and had always wanted to see the Wild West. That school, in that community, offered me a job so there I was. I had no family there. I was single (still am) and went there alone. I'm college educated and from what they considered a big city and for no good reason I came to smalltownsville, Wild West? Add this to the fact that I kept pretty much to myself and got lots of packages in the mail. (This has been observed as being unusual by the locals). I had no 'visitors' from home. At that time, I had no formal education in teaching, just 5 years in the college arena. And no one had any proof of any of this. They had my word on where I came from and my background. Anyone can put anything on a resume. Did I mention I was pretty closed mouthed about personal stuff when I visited the bars, almost amounting to being cryptic? I was also pretty politically aware and not afraid to voice that opinion. Oh yeah- and I'd been to big cities like DC, NYC and Boston and can talk with more knowledge of one who just went on a holiday but like someone who might have *audible gasp* lived there! These people decided I worked for the Feds. Most people still even thought it when I left, because when I left, I LEFT. No looking back.
It didn't help much that when I went to shoot a gun I had dead on aim. I mean I hit 11 out of 12 beer cans at 200 yards and 6 out of 6 Gatorade bottles at 350 yards. And it was the first time I ever shot a gun in my life. These folks didn't believe it after watching that display of marksmanship and the word got out. So, they all decided I committed some big 'wrong' while working in DC or at the NYC field office and was banished here. I swear to Goddess I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.
It doesn't matter that I didn't look like a Fed- I'm not built like a Fed. I had great aim, I'm from a big city and I knew stuff. It was too funny. And because strangers came to town every so often and then leave suddenly without an explanation or a trace... Well, they thought I was a Fed, like these others were. (I have no idea if these others were Feds or not, but hey, who knows?) And see, I didn't circulate much with the locals- or get close to them. I had some teacher friends but that is to be expected- right? But when it comes to town folks, I had very few friends. And the people outside of school I kept company with (ie: read "men" here) was a guy who worked for the environmental branch of the government (what the hell is the ENVIRONMENTAL branch???) and a local law enforcement officer; they thought the only reasons I dated him was professional because I might need some help from the local cop shop- also according to the local rumor mill. The other guy I was associated with came from out of town and was supposedly working on a construction crew building a government owned building...You see the connection here? This is the stuff people talked about in the bars, at the grocery store and at the post office. I was become part of the local lore around there.
Why the FBI? That's simple: Since the skirmish that involved the Feds happened ended peacefully, some of those towns people involved were still around so therefore the FBI had agents in town undercover to keep an eye on these people so it didn't happen again. The FBI had the disaster in Waco, the Unabomber, and then Ruby Ridge so they wanted to make sure to never have an incident like that again so the Feds lived among the natives in order to prevent another siege. That is the thinking and the mind set. True or BS, who knows, but it's what the people there believed!
So there I was ready to protect and serve the country by keeping peace and teaching poetry to the masses in the Wild West. When I was home for Christmas that first year, I remember sharing this story with a friend, who, after his hysterical laughter ceased, decided I should screw with these folks. He said he was going to start sending me mail with simply Washington, DC and a long number typed as the return address. He swore he was going to give me a navy jacket with the bright yellow FBI. He said I should walk around and wear mirrored sunglasses and talk into my wrist. I thought I should have lots of handsome, sexy men visit me because then they could gossip that I was getting laid WITH a fellow agent! (I didn't know any men that fit the description but it would've be hysterical if I had).
I always wondered if there was a real agent around town. I would've loved to meet this person for giggles and grins. I certainly took a lot of heat off of him or her. I should've gotten metal or a check from the government for doing my civic duty!
And that what people in the Wild West talked about in the bars for a long time: their high school English teacher was really an FBI agent.
Maggie
Thursday, November 25, 2010
A Turkey memory in honor of Thanksgiving
As I have mentioned in many previous posts, I am not really an animal person. I am nice to other people's pets and all, but for the most part, an animal lover I am not, especially those of the wild persuasion. I don't wish animals ill will, mind you, but I'm not gonna run out and join PETA or anything. And I am a carnivore. But I hate the idea of hunting- yeah I know- that makes no sense- I am a dichotomy! I even went hunting. I've talked about hunting again.
You know of my fear of spiders and other bugs (and I was thinking I could re-tell the story about the bunny I tried to save and the bugs with pinchers on its butt that tried to kill me when I lived in the frat house) which I don't consider animals. I just feel the need to point out I HATE, LOATHE and FEAR bugs, but I'm just... indifferent, if you will, about animals; I'm just not a lover of animals. Turkeys are no exception. I love turkey with dressing on my plate. Nowhere else. So imagine my surprise when....
I lived in the Wild West for three years. The following story happened to me about a month after I moved there. I came from a city where the wildest things I had encountered was Filene's Basement on Sale Day. I was a Cement Queen, shopping for the perfect pair of shoes was a hunting trip to me. I was NOT a NATURE girl and frankly, I'm still not.
So, I'm living in a small ranching town in the Wild West (again with the dichotomy). The first time I saw wild turkey in my yard, I screamed bloody murder, dropped my brief case and high tailed it back into the apartment where I promptly called a fellow teacher and in a voice that only dogs could hear, asked what in the hell was in my yard. When the fellow teacher calmed me down enough to get a description from me and realized I had not been attacked by man nor animal, she told me they were wild turkeys. I told her they couldn't be turkeys because turkeys were only found in the supermarket labeled "Butterball." Let's just say that story followed me for the three years I lived there. Anyway... There were wild turkeys that lived in a flock (are turkeys in flocks? gangs? hordes? herds? clans? whatever...) in town and sort of roamed around. Everyone was used to them and seemed she surprised that I was shocked to find TURKEYS hanging around in my front yard!
I had a second turkey encounter not long after my first turkey experience. I lived in a basement apartment so all my windows were eye level to the ground. And it was a beautiful day with a great breeze and sunshine so all the windows were open, including the one in my bathroom. So, I took a shower and when done, I was standing in the shower dripping wet, towel drying my hair and heard a weird scratching-like noise. I flipped my hair away and looked at the window. There, standing pressed against the screen, staring at me in profile with one great eye, was a HUGE wild turkey, and not of the liquor variety.
It was just standing there, staring at me. And pecking at the screen!!! It scared me to death. I yelped, it gobbled. I screamed, it fanned its tail feathers and pecked the screen with more intensity. I ran out of the bathroom, starkers, and hid in the bedroom. Let me clarify: hiding from the turkey was actually me standing in the middle of my bedroom, in the center of my bed, with having slammed the door closed and locked it. I was hyperventilating and dripping and trying to not scream bloody murder, less my neighbors think I was committing hari-kari. All I could think was that any minute, the giant wild turkey will come in and peck my eyes out. Hey, I saw Hitchcock's The Birds! Well, it didn't get in. After what seemed like an eternity but was probably only minutes, I put on a robe and tiptoed to my door and pressed my ear against. Yes, like I thought I would hear the turkey ransacking my apartment or something. Like you wouldn't do the same.
I grabbed a weapon. Okay, let me clarify one more time. I was a single woman who didn't believe in guns and I was standing half- nekkid in my bedroom, in the center of my bed thinking I was going to be murdered by poultry. Rational I was not; furthermore, I am a woman who collects, of all things, shoes, did then and do now. High Heels to be specific. When I say weapon, I use that word loosely. I grabbed a shoe. Not an expensive spike heel though it would've impaled the turkey nicely, but instead I got a clog I didn't like well in case the blood didn't come out. Now that I was armed, I took a deep breath and unlocked the bedroom door. I peeked out and saw nothing.
Great, now I had to walk all three feet down the hall to see into the bathroom, to check if the turkey pecked through the door and was waiting for me to return. So, I go peek into the bathroom making sure all was clear. Nothing in the bathroom, or any of the other rooms.
As I was leaning against the bathroom door in relief and contemplating why I owed those nasty clogs anyway, I looked out the window and what did I see? A whole herd of wild turkeys (flock, herd, what's the difference at this point?) shuffle passed my window. Only one was a "Pecking Tom!"
So this Thanksgiving, in addition to being thankful for family and friends, I am also thankful I no longer live where the deer and turkeys roam free. And I am thankful for window screens.
Happy Thanksgiving!
Maggie
You know of my fear of spiders and other bugs (and I was thinking I could re-tell the story about the bunny I tried to save and the bugs with pinchers on its butt that tried to kill me when I lived in the frat house) which I don't consider animals. I just feel the need to point out I HATE, LOATHE and FEAR bugs, but I'm just... indifferent, if you will, about animals; I'm just not a lover of animals. Turkeys are no exception. I love turkey with dressing on my plate. Nowhere else. So imagine my surprise when....
I lived in the Wild West for three years. The following story happened to me about a month after I moved there. I came from a city where the wildest things I had encountered was Filene's Basement on Sale Day. I was a Cement Queen, shopping for the perfect pair of shoes was a hunting trip to me. I was NOT a NATURE girl and frankly, I'm still not.
So, I'm living in a small ranching town in the Wild West (again with the dichotomy). The first time I saw wild turkey in my yard, I screamed bloody murder, dropped my brief case and high tailed it back into the apartment where I promptly called a fellow teacher and in a voice that only dogs could hear, asked what in the hell was in my yard. When the fellow teacher calmed me down enough to get a description from me and realized I had not been attacked by man nor animal, she told me they were wild turkeys. I told her they couldn't be turkeys because turkeys were only found in the supermarket labeled "Butterball." Let's just say that story followed me for the three years I lived there. Anyway... There were wild turkeys that lived in a flock (are turkeys in flocks? gangs? hordes? herds? clans? whatever...) in town and sort of roamed around. Everyone was used to them and seemed she surprised that I was shocked to find TURKEYS hanging around in my front yard!
I had a second turkey encounter not long after my first turkey experience. I lived in a basement apartment so all my windows were eye level to the ground. And it was a beautiful day with a great breeze and sunshine so all the windows were open, including the one in my bathroom. So, I took a shower and when done, I was standing in the shower dripping wet, towel drying my hair and heard a weird scratching-like noise. I flipped my hair away and looked at the window. There, standing pressed against the screen, staring at me in profile with one great eye, was a HUGE wild turkey, and not of the liquor variety.
It was just standing there, staring at me. And pecking at the screen!!! It scared me to death. I yelped, it gobbled. I screamed, it fanned its tail feathers and pecked the screen with more intensity. I ran out of the bathroom, starkers, and hid in the bedroom. Let me clarify: hiding from the turkey was actually me standing in the middle of my bedroom, in the center of my bed, with having slammed the door closed and locked it. I was hyperventilating and dripping and trying to not scream bloody murder, less my neighbors think I was committing hari-kari. All I could think was that any minute, the giant wild turkey will come in and peck my eyes out. Hey, I saw Hitchcock's The Birds! Well, it didn't get in. After what seemed like an eternity but was probably only minutes, I put on a robe and tiptoed to my door and pressed my ear against. Yes, like I thought I would hear the turkey ransacking my apartment or something. Like you wouldn't do the same.
I grabbed a weapon. Okay, let me clarify one more time. I was a single woman who didn't believe in guns and I was standing half- nekkid in my bedroom, in the center of my bed thinking I was going to be murdered by poultry. Rational I was not; furthermore, I am a woman who collects, of all things, shoes, did then and do now. High Heels to be specific. When I say weapon, I use that word loosely. I grabbed a shoe. Not an expensive spike heel though it would've impaled the turkey nicely, but instead I got a clog I didn't like well in case the blood didn't come out. Now that I was armed, I took a deep breath and unlocked the bedroom door. I peeked out and saw nothing.
Great, now I had to walk all three feet down the hall to see into the bathroom, to check if the turkey pecked through the door and was waiting for me to return. So, I go peek into the bathroom making sure all was clear. Nothing in the bathroom, or any of the other rooms.
As I was leaning against the bathroom door in relief and contemplating why I owed those nasty clogs anyway, I looked out the window and what did I see? A whole herd of wild turkeys (flock, herd, what's the difference at this point?) shuffle passed my window. Only one was a "Pecking Tom!"
So this Thanksgiving, in addition to being thankful for family and friends, I am also thankful I no longer live where the deer and turkeys roam free. And I am thankful for window screens.
Happy Thanksgiving!
Maggie
Thursday, November 11, 2010
A Shocking Experience
Yesterday at school we were bemoaning the idiots that are students. They just are, many of them anyway, by nature. They are stupid creatures. And because of their stupidity, we as educators dream of the opportunity to give them a swift kick, duct tape them or just give 'em a smack.
That being said, I was reminded of a time when I accidentally made this dream come true.
When I lived in the Wild West I was invited to a cattle branding. One of my student's parents invited me and I took this opportunity to learn something new.
There were about 75 people there to help brand about 10,000 head. During the branding, the cattle also received ear tags and an inoculation. Since I had never done anything like this, and I sure didn't want to be on a horse roping the calves, I was put in charge of helping separate the calves from their mommies.
I was given an piece of equipment called a "Hot Shot." It was a long, thin, lightweight rod that I could touch to the cattle to make them move. It gave them a shot of electricity. Nothing that would harm them but would certainly get them moving. Think jolt like that from an electric fence or an electric shock collar for a dog.
I was partnered with a guy who sort of "shooed" or herded the calf in my direction and I gave it a zap with the Hot Shot and it would run up a chute, so it could be strapped to a "calfing table" where it received its brand, ear tag and drug shot. All I had to do was send the calves up the chute, goosing the slackers with the Hot Shot. It wasn't hard work and it was fun.
So I'm just standing there, doing my thing, when one of the most annoying students in the world comes up behind me. This is a kid I didn't really like all that much. He had been disruptive in my classroom on a daily occurrence. He had also been in HUGE trouble with me on 2 separate instances; once when he drew swastikas on a picture of the Star of David (when I was teaching The Diary of Anne Frank) and another time when he called a white kid in his class a "dumbass n-word" (when I was teaching To Kill a Mockingbird). In reality, this kid was just a big, dumb, racist, jerk. But I swear what happened what an accident.
I had never worked a branding and while my job was an easy one, I still wanted to do it right. And I was nervous about goosing the calves with electric jolts. I'm a pacifist by nature so this was a little weird, even though everyone and their brother (literally I had brothers) was telling me it didn't hurt 'em, it just go the calves attention. I was concentrating and trying to "talk" the calves up the chute before I resorted to the hertz usage.
So this idiot kid comes up behind me, taps me on the shoulder and says my name. I'm in deep concentration with my baby cowies and he startles me a bit. I jump and turn around and as I do, he steps toward me and I forgot I had my thumb on the "zap" button and... well...
ZAP!!!! Not once, but twice. Because when I did it the first time, he jumped and so did I- me from shock and him from the current of electricity coursing through him. i stepped forward to see if he was okay and he stumbled- into the Hot Shot. Of which I still had my thumb on the zapper button. So yes, he got it again.
Oooops.
I swear to god, and all other religious deities of your choice, I didn't do it on purpose. At all, ever. It really was an accident.
I finally dropped the Hot Shot and rushed over to him to see if he was okay. He was still standing but barely. He was twitching and jerking. It was sort of... Parkinson-esque. I did feel badly about it, but he was hilarious. For at least an hour he was still wiggling, fussing, and stuttering around.
I do admit it was wrong and on accident. But it was an accident. And couldn't have happened to a 'nicer' kid, if you get my drift!
By the way, his parents weren't mad and I didn't get in trouble. Everyone thought it was funny. However, no one else would come near me after that so I got a new job. I was put in charge of guarding the pickup truck bed that was full of about 500 cans of beer. Uh, yeah...
Accidental revenge is good,
Maggie
That being said, I was reminded of a time when I accidentally made this dream come true.
When I lived in the Wild West I was invited to a cattle branding. One of my student's parents invited me and I took this opportunity to learn something new.
There were about 75 people there to help brand about 10,000 head. During the branding, the cattle also received ear tags and an inoculation. Since I had never done anything like this, and I sure didn't want to be on a horse roping the calves, I was put in charge of helping separate the calves from their mommies.
I was given an piece of equipment called a "Hot Shot." It was a long, thin, lightweight rod that I could touch to the cattle to make them move. It gave them a shot of electricity. Nothing that would harm them but would certainly get them moving. Think jolt like that from an electric fence or an electric shock collar for a dog.
I was partnered with a guy who sort of "shooed" or herded the calf in my direction and I gave it a zap with the Hot Shot and it would run up a chute, so it could be strapped to a "calfing table" where it received its brand, ear tag and drug shot. All I had to do was send the calves up the chute, goosing the slackers with the Hot Shot. It wasn't hard work and it was fun.
So I'm just standing there, doing my thing, when one of the most annoying students in the world comes up behind me. This is a kid I didn't really like all that much. He had been disruptive in my classroom on a daily occurrence. He had also been in HUGE trouble with me on 2 separate instances; once when he drew swastikas on a picture of the Star of David (when I was teaching The Diary of Anne Frank) and another time when he called a white kid in his class a "dumbass n-word" (when I was teaching To Kill a Mockingbird). In reality, this kid was just a big, dumb, racist, jerk. But I swear what happened what an accident.
I had never worked a branding and while my job was an easy one, I still wanted to do it right. And I was nervous about goosing the calves with electric jolts. I'm a pacifist by nature so this was a little weird, even though everyone and their brother (literally I had brothers) was telling me it didn't hurt 'em, it just go the calves attention. I was concentrating and trying to "talk" the calves up the chute before I resorted to the hertz usage.
So this idiot kid comes up behind me, taps me on the shoulder and says my name. I'm in deep concentration with my baby cowies and he startles me a bit. I jump and turn around and as I do, he steps toward me and I forgot I had my thumb on the "zap" button and... well...
ZAP!!!! Not once, but twice. Because when I did it the first time, he jumped and so did I- me from shock and him from the current of electricity coursing through him. i stepped forward to see if he was okay and he stumbled- into the Hot Shot. Of which I still had my thumb on the zapper button. So yes, he got it again.
Oooops.
I swear to god, and all other religious deities of your choice, I didn't do it on purpose. At all, ever. It really was an accident.
I finally dropped the Hot Shot and rushed over to him to see if he was okay. He was still standing but barely. He was twitching and jerking. It was sort of... Parkinson-esque. I did feel badly about it, but he was hilarious. For at least an hour he was still wiggling, fussing, and stuttering around.
I do admit it was wrong and on accident. But it was an accident. And couldn't have happened to a 'nicer' kid, if you get my drift!
By the way, his parents weren't mad and I didn't get in trouble. Everyone thought it was funny. However, no one else would come near me after that so I got a new job. I was put in charge of guarding the pickup truck bed that was full of about 500 cans of beer. Uh, yeah...
Accidental revenge is good,
Maggie
Saturday, August 7, 2010
I'm feeling in the pink this Saturday!
One thing I miss about living in the Wild West is the sky, the land, the landscape, the colors. Okay, that's more than one thing... Whether at sunset or sunrise, the sky there is amazing, a huge pallet of color. I love all the pinks that could be found in the sky.
My Wild West night skies were beautiful. The stars punctuate the sky and have this breathtaking splendor that is indescribable. To stand in utter the simple darkness of the night, with no trees, or city lights in the distance, to have nothing but unbroken sky the stretches to the end of the earth and that vast open space is filled with stars. More than saying they look diamonds. These stars in my Wild West sky defy explanation. The sunsets are shot with color, melting into each other, creating imagery that can't be copied.
The sky and the land meet in a place that is as far away as heaven- no trees or buildings or mountains break the vision of a vast land of nothing but sky and land. It’s like looking into an ocean of color, seeing nothing except where the sky and land touch somewhere in the vast, great distance that could be heaven.
It is a vast land. It is lonely and hard. This land is beseeching yet graceful. It is hauntingly empty, yet there is comfort in the emptiness as it erupts when the wind sweeps over plains, the wheat grasses and the breeze dancing a slow dance to a beat only they know, almost becoming one, like long time lovers who anticipate all the caresses to the love making before it happens.
Sometimes I miss the Wild West...
Thanks to Beverly at How Sweet the Sound for hosting Pink Saturday. And an extra special thank you to her today for making me a featured blog, listed on her site! And special thanks to all of you for stopping by, and for commenting!
I also want to take this time to recognize Lisa at Pupylov. She's a fellow blogger and she's just an awesome lady. I love to visit her blog; it's a potpourri of wonderfuls. She's a dog lover, a pink lover, a handcraft maker, and just a sweet person. I love the blog world for letting me meet someone like her! So go visit her blog, too. You won't be disappointed in the sweetness you find there.
Happy Pink Saturday everyone!
Kisses and cake,
Maggie Mae
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Slitherin'
When I lived in the Wild West, I did some cool cowgirl stuff. For those of you who read my previous blog, you might remember some of my old adventures like when I rode a horse for the first time, when I tried to break Penny the horse, the spiders, getting gumbo stuck, the first time I went hunting, the peeping Tom Turkeys, and the first time I went to a rodeo. But I don't think I ever talked about my snake encounters.
The first one happened when I had lived there about three weeks. My apartment had a side yard my landlords id a crappy job of maintaining. The grass was about knee high most all summer long. One day when I was walking to town, all three blocks away, I decided to cut across the lawn; I don't know why. I tripped over what I thought was a big, old tree branch... until it MOVED!! I went screaming across the lawn and didn't stop running and screaming until I hit the grocery store. I was shaking and bawling my head off and I was all sweaty ans snot streaming down my face. When I could finally hurl out the words, a local guy drove to the house and shortly came back. I "tripped" over a bull snake that was about 6 feet long. I think I fainted. The upside is that bull snakes don't hurt people; they eat rattle snakes. The other upside is, apparently, that on my way across the yard I missed seeing the huge coiled rattle snake that was on my patio. Oh. My. Goddess. The guy who went to see what I tripped on also killed the rattler.
My second rattlesnake encounter was when I was with another teacher. I was riding with her to her ranch when we came to a rattler stretched all the way across the road. Without missing a beat, she kept on talking but stopped her truck, ran over it, and backed up and down over it a few more times. then whipped out a pistol and shot the sucker dead. I think my heart stopped beating for a week. And she rendered me speechless.
My third encounter was, by far, the best and I didn't look like such a fool. Well, not until the end. In the spring of my first year, I went to help move cattle from winter to summer pastures. We all had horses saddled up with shot guns strapped to them, as well as a rope and gloves and a saddle bag. All the horses looked the same as far as equipment went; I don't think anyone intended for me to use a gun. It was just "there.". Now, I had learned to shoot earlier that fall so while I wasn't super comfortable with a gun, I knew the basic workings.
So all of us are spread all over, moving the cows (it's easier to herd cattle than kids because I've done both and can speak with authority). We all sort of had out own section of pasture to cover. I was doing my thing when I looked down and saw I was stopped about 6 feet from a HUGE rattlesnake. It was coiled and sunning itself on some rocks. It was shaking its rattle and looking at me.
Without thinking lots, I whipped out the shot gun, took aim, pulled the trigger and I actually killed the snake in a single shot. One shot. Then I rode away, got my straggling calf and headed toward the others.
That's when I saw the others. All 15 people lined up, halted in mid motion, staring at me, mouths agape. I rode over and said, "what?" Everyone started talking at once, cheering me, patting me. They said I looked like Annie Oakley out there, never missing a beat, sitting on the horse, hat pushed back... And how cool it was that the snake was in striking distance of me and the horse and I never flinched. Striking distance?!? Oh. My. God. That's when I started shaking and crying. The owner of the cows said he was just glad I didn't shoot the stray calf, which is what he thought I was doing. Hey, I was surprised as the next guy that I killed it, didn't shoot myself or a cow.
And those are my Wild West snake stories. In the immortal words of Indiana Jones, "Snakes? Why does it always have to be snakes?!?"
The first one happened when I had lived there about three weeks. My apartment had a side yard my landlords id a crappy job of maintaining. The grass was about knee high most all summer long. One day when I was walking to town, all three blocks away, I decided to cut across the lawn; I don't know why. I tripped over what I thought was a big, old tree branch... until it MOVED!! I went screaming across the lawn and didn't stop running and screaming until I hit the grocery store. I was shaking and bawling my head off and I was all sweaty ans snot streaming down my face. When I could finally hurl out the words, a local guy drove to the house and shortly came back. I "tripped" over a bull snake that was about 6 feet long. I think I fainted. The upside is that bull snakes don't hurt people; they eat rattle snakes. The other upside is, apparently, that on my way across the yard I missed seeing the huge coiled rattle snake that was on my patio. Oh. My. Goddess. The guy who went to see what I tripped on also killed the rattler.
My second rattlesnake encounter was when I was with another teacher. I was riding with her to her ranch when we came to a rattler stretched all the way across the road. Without missing a beat, she kept on talking but stopped her truck, ran over it, and backed up and down over it a few more times. then whipped out a pistol and shot the sucker dead. I think my heart stopped beating for a week. And she rendered me speechless.
My third encounter was, by far, the best and I didn't look like such a fool. Well, not until the end. In the spring of my first year, I went to help move cattle from winter to summer pastures. We all had horses saddled up with shot guns strapped to them, as well as a rope and gloves and a saddle bag. All the horses looked the same as far as equipment went; I don't think anyone intended for me to use a gun. It was just "there.". Now, I had learned to shoot earlier that fall so while I wasn't super comfortable with a gun, I knew the basic workings.
So all of us are spread all over, moving the cows (it's easier to herd cattle than kids because I've done both and can speak with authority). We all sort of had out own section of pasture to cover. I was doing my thing when I looked down and saw I was stopped about 6 feet from a HUGE rattlesnake. It was coiled and sunning itself on some rocks. It was shaking its rattle and looking at me.
Without thinking lots, I whipped out the shot gun, took aim, pulled the trigger and I actually killed the snake in a single shot. One shot. Then I rode away, got my straggling calf and headed toward the others.
That's when I saw the others. All 15 people lined up, halted in mid motion, staring at me, mouths agape. I rode over and said, "what?" Everyone started talking at once, cheering me, patting me. They said I looked like Annie Oakley out there, never missing a beat, sitting on the horse, hat pushed back... And how cool it was that the snake was in striking distance of me and the horse and I never flinched. Striking distance?!? Oh. My. God. That's when I started shaking and crying. The owner of the cows said he was just glad I didn't shoot the stray calf, which is what he thought I was doing. Hey, I was surprised as the next guy that I killed it, didn't shoot myself or a cow.
And those are my Wild West snake stories. In the immortal words of Indiana Jones, "Snakes? Why does it always have to be snakes?!?"
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Ben Cartwright
Two years ago my mom died. But this post isn't really about that, but it's part of it. She was sick in the hospital about a week before she died. She was in the ICU during that time.
The waiting room in ICU is... strange, for lack of a better word. Everyone is there because they're all facing a tragedy with a loved one. There was an Amish family whose son wasn't going to make it. There were a few folks who were in and out because their relation was having open heart surgery. There was us. Then there was another family.
Now remember, when my mom got sick, I was living in the Wild West. We just threw our stuff in suitcases and hopped the first flight possible. I never dreamed when I left that she would die. So I wasn't dressed up ever. I usually wore Wranglers, western shirts or long sleeve t-shirts, and a pair of pink cowboy boots. Yeah, you read that right, pink cowboy boots. I love them and I still wear them here. They're "dress" boots; think of them as Sunday Go To Meetin' boots, not for working in the fields or riding.
As I sat in the hospital waiting room, a man came in to join his family. He hugged everyone, spoke in low tones and then took his seat to take up his stretch of the vigil. He was wearing a pair of Wranglers, work cowboy boots, a clean flannel shirt, and a cowboy hat, which he turned upside down on the seat next to him, like a good cowboy does. He had a weathered face and white hair. He's probably about 60 years old. I'm gonna call him Ben Cartwright.
We made eye contact and nodded heads. Then he noticed my boots, and smiled. Then he grinned. And his smile got bigger and he finally walked across the waiting room and introduced himself and said, "I had to meet a girl who'd wear pink boots."
We chatted; his brother was having brain surgery. He was there with sister, and his brother wife and kids. I told him about my mom. Then we chatted about the Wild West. I told him about why I moved there, what I did and about where I lived. And irony of all ironies; he's a horseman who came to the Wild West annually to buy horses. And he came to the town that was only 61 miles from me, the closest town to me. He had even been to the tiny little place where I lived.
Add more irony, we were at a hospital in Northern Civilization, about 45 minutes from where I live. Come to find out Ben lives about 20 minutes from me in the other direction but his brother (who was having the brain tumor surgery) lived in the same town I do and his nephew (brain tumor guy's son) lived about 10 minutes from me as well.
Ben was funny and interesting. And because he had been where I lived, we really connected and could talk and talk. He was just a sweet and kind man.
Over the course of the week he and I would talk every day and got to know each other. His wife and I chatted sometimes but she was busy comforting Ben's sister-in-law. After mom died, I wasn't gonna be back to the ICU waiting room so Ben and I exchanged addresses and phone numbers; he was going to call me when he came to the Wild West again. His brother came out of the surgery and was doing really well. If all went as planned, he would be moved out of ICU and into a regular room 2 days after my mom died. I was happy that they had good news, ya know?
That year at Christmas, I sent them a card but never heard from them. I don't know why. I did keep his address and phone number. So, I guess we just 'lost touch' but for whatever reason he stayed on my mind often.
So last week, the nephew comes in the ice cream parlor. I was surprised because he hadn't been in at any time that I had been working all summer long. We recognized each other and he said he was going to tell his Uncle- Ben Cartwright- that he saw me.
Then a few days ago, who walks in while I was working? BEN CARTWRIGHT! It was awesome! After big hugs and kisses we got caught up. And I pulled his address out of my wallet and it seemed that I had written his snail mail addy wrong. But guess what he pulled out of his wallet? MY ADDRESS! It was just too funny.
We made sure we had the new info and that it was all correct. AND he called and sang "happy birthday" to me! It's so great that we've reconnected. And since he's a horseman, I have now a standing invite to ride (horses) anytime I want. It's amazing. How wonderful!
Something good can come out of something bad and here's the perfect example of such!
Still a little bit country whether I like it or not,
Maggie Mae
The waiting room in ICU is... strange, for lack of a better word. Everyone is there because they're all facing a tragedy with a loved one. There was an Amish family whose son wasn't going to make it. There were a few folks who were in and out because their relation was having open heart surgery. There was us. Then there was another family.
Now remember, when my mom got sick, I was living in the Wild West. We just threw our stuff in suitcases and hopped the first flight possible. I never dreamed when I left that she would die. So I wasn't dressed up ever. I usually wore Wranglers, western shirts or long sleeve t-shirts, and a pair of pink cowboy boots. Yeah, you read that right, pink cowboy boots. I love them and I still wear them here. They're "dress" boots; think of them as Sunday Go To Meetin' boots, not for working in the fields or riding.
As I sat in the hospital waiting room, a man came in to join his family. He hugged everyone, spoke in low tones and then took his seat to take up his stretch of the vigil. He was wearing a pair of Wranglers, work cowboy boots, a clean flannel shirt, and a cowboy hat, which he turned upside down on the seat next to him, like a good cowboy does. He had a weathered face and white hair. He's probably about 60 years old. I'm gonna call him Ben Cartwright.
We made eye contact and nodded heads. Then he noticed my boots, and smiled. Then he grinned. And his smile got bigger and he finally walked across the waiting room and introduced himself and said, "I had to meet a girl who'd wear pink boots."
We chatted; his brother was having brain surgery. He was there with sister, and his brother wife and kids. I told him about my mom. Then we chatted about the Wild West. I told him about why I moved there, what I did and about where I lived. And irony of all ironies; he's a horseman who came to the Wild West annually to buy horses. And he came to the town that was only 61 miles from me, the closest town to me. He had even been to the tiny little place where I lived.
Add more irony, we were at a hospital in Northern Civilization, about 45 minutes from where I live. Come to find out Ben lives about 20 minutes from me in the other direction but his brother (who was having the brain tumor surgery) lived in the same town I do and his nephew (brain tumor guy's son) lived about 10 minutes from me as well.
Ben was funny and interesting. And because he had been where I lived, we really connected and could talk and talk. He was just a sweet and kind man.
Over the course of the week he and I would talk every day and got to know each other. His wife and I chatted sometimes but she was busy comforting Ben's sister-in-law. After mom died, I wasn't gonna be back to the ICU waiting room so Ben and I exchanged addresses and phone numbers; he was going to call me when he came to the Wild West again. His brother came out of the surgery and was doing really well. If all went as planned, he would be moved out of ICU and into a regular room 2 days after my mom died. I was happy that they had good news, ya know?
That year at Christmas, I sent them a card but never heard from them. I don't know why. I did keep his address and phone number. So, I guess we just 'lost touch' but for whatever reason he stayed on my mind often.
So last week, the nephew comes in the ice cream parlor. I was surprised because he hadn't been in at any time that I had been working all summer long. We recognized each other and he said he was going to tell his Uncle- Ben Cartwright- that he saw me.
Then a few days ago, who walks in while I was working? BEN CARTWRIGHT! It was awesome! After big hugs and kisses we got caught up. And I pulled his address out of my wallet and it seemed that I had written his snail mail addy wrong. But guess what he pulled out of his wallet? MY ADDRESS! It was just too funny.
We made sure we had the new info and that it was all correct. AND he called and sang "happy birthday" to me! It's so great that we've reconnected. And since he's a horseman, I have now a standing invite to ride (horses) anytime I want. It's amazing. How wonderful!
Something good can come out of something bad and here's the perfect example of such!
Still a little bit country whether I like it or not,
Maggie Mae
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Missin' Philsgirl
I miss Philsgirl. She is the only reason I survived the last 2 years I lived in the Wild West and since I've been back I've really missed her. I have a good time hanging out with Hecate, Daddy-O and my family, and I adore spending time with Curley but I really miss Philsgirl.
Philsgirl is my polar opposite and some might argue that the only reason we became friends is because we were both transplants into the Wild West and hated living there. Well, maybe that was the case in the beginning; however, that small reason quickly dissipated after a few conversations when we learned we were both sarcastic, quick witted, a bit lazy, complete procrastinators, and lovers of cheese. Okay, the last bit is true and a bit weird, but important because we ate lots of nachos without compunction or TUMS.
Philsgirl and I are also different as night day and one might wonder how in the hell we became friends. She loves to camp and being dirty, touching bugs and other nasty creepy crawly creatures, is fearless, enjoys hunting and fishing, thinks peeing outside is vital to ones health, and could go for a week without a shower and not worry about it, especially if she's out in the woods or up in the mountains. She gets excited about seeing a bear in her backyard while I'm worried that the bear think of her as dinner. While she's miss nature girl, she's not a butchy tom boy- she's a cute, slim, short blond with bright green eyes. While I have zero interest in all those things she loves, she doesn't really think it's necessary to own 100+ pair of shoes, isn't really fond of make up, she owns 1 skirt (made of denim), a mall is not considered a jungle, and she doesn't like coffee.
She would make fun of me when she opened my freezer to find 4 kinds of ice cream, about 9 frozen pizzas, several bags of coffee beans, and a variety of toaster strudel pastries. I would make fun of her freezer when she could identify bags of scat to their animal excreters. She would harass me over the fact that I would color code my clothes hanging in my closet. I would harass her about her collection of animal skulls arrange in a curio cabinet according to size.
But we bonded over shared shifts at the cafe and then together as teachers at the high school in Wild West. We shared the same prep period and would bemoan the stupid students, their stupider parents, and our nasty fellow faculty members.
While we are different as night and day, we also found we loved to listen to each other and tease. We would make fun of each other's idiosyncrasies with chuckles in our voices and twinkles in our eyes or out right belly laughs. Our idiosyncrasies, while different, actually brought us together. We both hate the Wild West and most of the people there. We both loves to eat and celebrated Fat Girl Fridays. We loved to watch Sex and the City and drink margaritas. We both love to laugh and consider sarcasm as necessary as water.
Some of my best times in the Wild West can be attributed to time spend with Philsgirl. Road trips to Billings, Miles City and Ingomar, MT all came with huge laughs. She was there the first and only time I've EVER peed in an outhouse. We had Thanksgiving and birthdays together. We graded papers together, took walks, and hung out at each other's homes. We went to church dinners together. The first time I ever saw an owl was because of Philsgirl who is an owl lover- and it was like magic. We just sat in the car watching it watch us and listening to it hoot. We had drinking nights with her hubby and another teacher from school- the 4 of us would sit around and drink pomegranate martinis and eat until we were sick with laughter as well as the food and drink. Most of the time we spent together involved so much laughing that we about peed ourselves and would gasp for air.
I'm so happy to be away from the WIld West and I'm super duper excited that Philsgirl and her hubby finally got transferred out of there and into her beloved mountains on the other side of the Wild West state.
I miss her bunches! We still email and call but that's not the same. So something good did come out of living in the Wild West.
Sometimes you need a girlfriend,
Maggie
Philsgirl is my polar opposite and some might argue that the only reason we became friends is because we were both transplants into the Wild West and hated living there. Well, maybe that was the case in the beginning; however, that small reason quickly dissipated after a few conversations when we learned we were both sarcastic, quick witted, a bit lazy, complete procrastinators, and lovers of cheese. Okay, the last bit is true and a bit weird, but important because we ate lots of nachos without compunction or TUMS.
Philsgirl and I are also different as night day and one might wonder how in the hell we became friends. She loves to camp and being dirty, touching bugs and other nasty creepy crawly creatures, is fearless, enjoys hunting and fishing, thinks peeing outside is vital to ones health, and could go for a week without a shower and not worry about it, especially if she's out in the woods or up in the mountains. She gets excited about seeing a bear in her backyard while I'm worried that the bear think of her as dinner. While she's miss nature girl, she's not a butchy tom boy- she's a cute, slim, short blond with bright green eyes. While I have zero interest in all those things she loves, she doesn't really think it's necessary to own 100+ pair of shoes, isn't really fond of make up, she owns 1 skirt (made of denim), a mall is not considered a jungle, and she doesn't like coffee.
She would make fun of me when she opened my freezer to find 4 kinds of ice cream, about 9 frozen pizzas, several bags of coffee beans, and a variety of toaster strudel pastries. I would make fun of her freezer when she could identify bags of scat to their animal excreters. She would harass me over the fact that I would color code my clothes hanging in my closet. I would harass her about her collection of animal skulls arrange in a curio cabinet according to size.
But we bonded over shared shifts at the cafe and then together as teachers at the high school in Wild West. We shared the same prep period and would bemoan the stupid students, their stupider parents, and our nasty fellow faculty members.
While we are different as night and day, we also found we loved to listen to each other and tease. We would make fun of each other's idiosyncrasies with chuckles in our voices and twinkles in our eyes or out right belly laughs. Our idiosyncrasies, while different, actually brought us together. We both hate the Wild West and most of the people there. We both loves to eat and celebrated Fat Girl Fridays. We loved to watch Sex and the City and drink margaritas. We both love to laugh and consider sarcasm as necessary as water.
Some of my best times in the Wild West can be attributed to time spend with Philsgirl. Road trips to Billings, Miles City and Ingomar, MT all came with huge laughs. She was there the first and only time I've EVER peed in an outhouse. We had Thanksgiving and birthdays together. We graded papers together, took walks, and hung out at each other's homes. We went to church dinners together. The first time I ever saw an owl was because of Philsgirl who is an owl lover- and it was like magic. We just sat in the car watching it watch us and listening to it hoot. We had drinking nights with her hubby and another teacher from school- the 4 of us would sit around and drink pomegranate martinis and eat until we were sick with laughter as well as the food and drink. Most of the time we spent together involved so much laughing that we about peed ourselves and would gasp for air.
I'm so happy to be away from the WIld West and I'm super duper excited that Philsgirl and her hubby finally got transferred out of there and into her beloved mountains on the other side of the Wild West state.
I miss her bunches! We still email and call but that's not the same. So something good did come out of living in the Wild West.
Sometimes you need a girlfriend,
Maggie
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