MISS ME MUCH
I haven't been around here much lately.
There's a lot of places I've been wandering instead....

You might have seen me sitting at a soccer game
Or making phone calls for snack and team photos
Or in my minister's office
Trying to understand my life and faith
Or outside reading a book watching kids play
Stuck in high water, driving in the rain
In Willis TX with a GPS
Or in Goodrich, Texas, looking at a mare

Or wiping sweat off my brow,
walking through a blacktop parking lot
Loaded up with kids, and groceries, and worries

Exploring the wonder of flowers in the gully
Or at a park, watching children laugh
Or in a forest, going for a walk

Or leading a white horse down a dusty trail
Or at a fast hand-gallop along the arena rail

Walking in boots,
in tennis shoes,
In sandals down the street with a kid or two
Maybe scrubbing a dog in the Sunday sun
In prayer, or in church with a friend
Watching a little one turn three
Or teaching some kids how to steer a horse
Or some just to hang on
You might find me with a birthday cake

A bridle, a brush, a birdhouse, or a burrito
Or a pocket western in hand
One Louis L'Amour treaded for another

Talking on the phone to an old friend
Or shaking hands with a new one
Driving and crying, or leaving it all behind
Having a smoke and a Sprite on a country road
Or a burger and coke with an old friend and our kids

I might be walking in the forest
following a compass and leading a child
I might be saddling up as you read this
To teach a child, or go for a ride
I might be reading a book to a boy in bed
Or walking next to a kid and a dog on a summer evening stroll
I might be around here, somewhere

Listening to: Fugitive, Indigo Girls, Swamp Ophelia
BOOKS
Sylvia Plath
Letters Home: Correspondence 1950-1963
Selected and Edited with Commentary by Aurelia Schober Plath
This book made me so very sad. I put it down with a heavy heart and haven't even wanted to explore how I felt about it, for a while at least. The ending, well, it just killed me.
In this collection of letters sent home by Sylvia Plath, we are shown the subject viewed by her family, and boy, do we just fall in love with her. Sylvia was a delightful person, very mature for her age always, insightful, and talented. She was also very ambitious. In these years, we see how she sets goals for herself and her writing. In her late teens she was sending out articles to Seventeen, and was a published author of short stories before she made it into Smith College. We see her struggles through the letters, stories of dates with boys and always a dedication to her art. She agonized endlessly about her works being sent out, always with great excitement and fear all the same. She set timetables and developed relationships with editors. Her ambition was strong, and we see how fiercely she pursued her writing goals.
Once I read comments from fans about the movie based on her life (see Sylvia), and some were angry that the movie only starts around the time Sylvia meets Ted Hughes, who became her husband. Her fans were angry at the injustice, because by only looking at that part of her life, you miss all the stuff that came before, and that is the stuff that was remarkable about Sylvia. If you only saw her in relation to Hughes, you missed her achievements before him, such as the attainment of a Fullbright scholarship to earn her M.A. at Cambridge and the scores of published poems and stories she had under her belt before she married the man who would outshine her and then walk out on her, leaving her to face her demons alone.
Sylvia was determined to be a writer, and not just any writer, but a Writer, one of significance and fame. Her marriage with Ted Hughes complimented that dream, as he was also a published poet some few years older than her, and who challenged her and pushed her as a poet. Her letters talk about the help he gave her in terms of studying for her masters degree and inspiring many euphoric poems involving nature.
After I had watched the movie "Sylvia", I had been mad for three days over Ted Hughes. After this book, I can't say that was any different. However, I did understand things a lot better. I see why she had fallen in love with him, and stayed in love with him. There is so much happiness in their early years. Sometimes I wondered, while reading this book, how much happiness was worth the unhappy ending? Does the means justify the end?
And poor Sylvia, she put up such a courageous front. Her letters are always positive, and full of hope, and you wonder how this was a girl who suffered from depressive thoughts. Was it a shield to her family of her true deeper struggles? In the commentary by her mother, we learn of an episode Sylvia had where she had to withdraw from school due to mental breakdown, around the time she was rejected for a prestigious writing class.
This episode was clear in S.'s mind as something to avoid, and also perhaps she wanted to not worry her mother with. Perhaps her later struggles with Ted were something she didn't feel comfortable writing home about. Problems arose when Ted began having an affair, and S. was very jealous and sad about it. During this time, she never wrote news home about it, but it was readily apparent when her mom came to visit them for that summer. Shortly after, Sylvia Plath divorced Ted Hughes, which was very difficult for her financially. She retained full care of their two young children, Frieda and Nick. (Coincidentally, and tragically, during the time I was reading this book, news broke that Nicolas Plath,"Nick", committed suicide in Alaska).
After this break up of her ten year marriage, she struggled to make ends meet and continue writing. It was the coldest winter in London's history. Keeping warm, she would write in the morning before the kids rose. She was extremely sick of the flu, nearly died of it during this time, but this was also the most productive few months of her life. She was considered a quite famous poet in London around this time period, and had meetings with editors and two books in publication...when the book ends abruptly with the arrival of sad news for the mother of this wonderful woman.
The last letter in the book was dated February 4, 1963, and is full of assurances that things are looking up, she has plans for the future, she wants her mom not to worry about her. This last letter ends with the mention that she will see a doctor referred to her who will "help me weather this difficult time".
This is how the book ends (which is the most tragic part, but if you don't like spoilers, you don't have to read it).
On February 12, 1963, my sister received a cablegram from Ted, telling us "Sylvia died yesterday" and giving details of the time and place of the funeral service.
Her physical energies had been depleted by illness, anxiety and overwork, and although she had for so long managed to be gallant and equal to the life experience, some darker day than usual had temporaily made it seem impossible to pursue.
Sniff.
more on that later

To me, this is a witness of Nature's Divinity.

I loved the way the plants danced and it has been captivating me creatively....

Bullseye's Arrival To College Station

(just figured out my scanner)

Wesley fills out the receipt over to the right.

HORSE OF MY HEART

(continuation of yesterday's essay)

Wesley drove away and I looked at this animal, caked with dried sweat from his earlier adventure. His tail was a solid matt. He had mud clinging to his knees.

First thing I did is give him a bath. I spent an hour and a half on his tail alone, working the tangles out with ShowShine. I wanted to give him some time to get used to the place before I tried to ride him. When Wesley left, it was with these parting words:

"Now remember, don't ride him without a helmet. And a curb bit, and a metal tie-down, to keep him from rearing. And only ride him western."

Sure, that would be the safest. However, he was my horse now, and I wanted him on my terms. My terms were trust and love. The first two weeks I spent just grooming him, walking him around the place, and working on his issue with his hooves. I used positive reinforcement to get him to accept having his feet handled, and had gotten to a point where I could hold his hooves between my legs, like the farrier would, for as long as I wanted, and knock on the edges, the way the farrier's hammer would when shoeing him.

Finally, after these two weeks, I had a dream in which I rode him, and I woke and went straight to the barn to try it, again, on my terms. I brought my english saddle. The english saddle has less safety features and more body contact alone with the horse, and leaves the rider a little more vulnerable. I also brought my own bridle, fitted with a snaffle bit. The snaffle is much gentler in the horse's mouth than a curb, and plus allows one to either rein the horse directly (with two hands), or neck rein (one hand). It gives a softer connection with the delicate edges of the horse's mouth.

This first ride, I also did not wear my helmet. I wanted complete trust between us, and therefore I had to trust him completely. He did not let me down. It was a beautiful ride. We walked, trotted, and cantered in circles along the fenceline of small grassy paddock. I was so proud that our connection had remained intact, and happy that I was finally riding my very own horse, the first and only horse I have ever owned.

He was completely responsive and trusting, although a bit rusty in arena manners. As far as I knew, he had only been ridden on the trail. He had never learned lead changes or lateral work, but I could remedy that. And I did.

I kept him at this first barn for more than half a year. I came out to visit him every day, because I was responsible for cleaning his stall and feeding him in the evenings. When he would see me approaching his stall, he would nicker for me, a tone that horses reserve when they see something they have affection for (usually used in regards to people, especially ones bearing food, and a horse's own offspring).

I rode him almost daily, and bathed him often. His coat became slick and shiny. Sometimes I would have a lot of studying to do, but I would bring it with me to the barn, put his halter on, and lead him to a shady area with a lot of grass where he could graze while I read my textbooks and sometimes paused to look at him. I trusted him enough to just let the lead rope rest over his withers while he grazed, comfortable in the fact that he would rather be here with me than, say, running off towards the feeder to the main highway just in front of his barn.

I chose a farrier for him that would work only in gentle methods, and never hit him, but yet never let him get away with silliness, either. The first time they (a husband and wife team) worked on him, it took them an hour just to trim his hooves. He didn't need shoes out here, and luckily for all of us, he had slow growing, tough hooves that could be trimmed just every three months instead of every six weeks.

By the time I left that town about a year and a half later, that couple could trim him in the fifteen minutes typical of most horses, without any foolish business on his part, or drugs. He had been ridden english, western, and bareback. Often times I would be done riding him in the saddle, and just lean over and uncinch it, slide back behind the end of it, pull it off his back and lean it on the fence, and scoot forward them to ride him around bareback, without him even moving a muscle. There were times maybe people at the barn were just goofing off with their horses, or I just wanted a quick ride, and I would tie the end of his lead line to his halter, jump on his bare back, and go. Sometimes I fooled around and rode backwards, or just laid across his back while he grazed in the pasture.

I also took him over fences, over poles lying on the ground, galloped him along the race track, and took him over the hunt course in the middle. He was a trooper, always did everything I asked and more. He learned some complicated arena moves, like sidepassing and flying lead changes. I put all my friends up on his back, most of them with little experience, but no trouble riding him at all.

But right when we were about to move from College Station to Colorado, we had an incident that likely changed things forever between us, although maybe neither of us had any idea what its implications were for the future. More on that later.

HORSE OF MY DREAMS

For most of you guys, this is the same story you've heard variations of over and over. However, I just realized that there are people who know me who have never heard this story. This is for one of those that asked for it.
It was my second day at work at the boy scout horse camp. Children had not arrived yet, and this was the week of preparation for the upcoming summer. Every day, the staff was broken into work teams who worked on different areas of the camp.
This day, my boss, the head wrangler Wesley, set me off to the barn to hold the horses for the farrier. He was trimming and shoeing all the forty horses in the barn and had not yet got started. I grabbed a halter and looked around for the first horse to grab.
I saw a striking bay in the second to last stall on the left. The stalls were short with simple bars diving them, so I could see the horses' whole bodies. I knew he was second in the pecking order from which stall he was in. Horses always have a pecking order, and often line up according to it for stall and food access situations. The first horse was a large grey gelding that was easily the best horse in the barn, and the biggest. This bay was very nicely built, too, and about four inches shorter. His coat was gorgeous and shiny, and he quivered and danced in his stall.
I haltered him and brought him over to the farrier, but the minute the man tried to lift his hoof, he started rearing and snorting. The more the man tried to get close to him, the more he danced. If the farrier managed to get a hold on his hoof, the horse would try to pull away and rear up, going backwards at the same time, with the whites of his eyes rolling.
"I'm not touching that one without drugs," he said.
The next day, the farrier had finished working on all four feet of the forty head..except three, which including the mules (Willie and Waylon) and that bay gelding, who as I can to find out, was called "Bullseye", after a brand on his left hip. These three had to be loaded in the trailer and taken to the vet's office for tranquilizers.
The mules loaded easily. The farrier went off to the vet's to work on them. The bay, however, wanted nothing to do with the trailer. For three hours, the men worked on him, trying various methods to get him in the trailer. He came within a foot of it at one point, then reared up, right when they were trying to push him, and he sliced his neck on the corner of the stock trailer. Blood dripped down his neck and sweat covered his haunches as he fought the men.
"That horse is crazy, " everyone muttered under their breath as we watched the show. The guys who worked there before said he had never been able to be ridden in the two years he had been at the camp. The rangers got on him, but he spooked, threw his rider, and went running back to the barn, every time.
Finally, old C.E., the ancient cowboy who ran the place all year long, rose up from his spot under a shady tree. He had been resting and trying to take it easy, as he had some kind of terminal lung condition, but at this point, he started yelling at the horse.
"Get in the damn trailer!" he yelled, over and over, and began walking over with his lariat. He smacked the horse on the rear with the stiff rope, over and over, leaving welts along his flanks. That failed to impress the horse, who finally only agreed to enter the trailer when Wesley tied his lead to his saddlehorn and let him follow his own horse in.
The next day, when the farrier came to get paid, he expressed surprise over the events of the previous evening.
"That's the first time I ever had to shoe a horse while he was upside down and sleeping," he explained. He told us that the mules simmered down nicely with their drugs, but this one still fought, even with the drugs. The vet kept giving him more and more until finally he dropped down, totally out, and the shoer was able to work on him at last.
That first two weeks, Wesley had asked Joanna to work with him, as she had worked for Wesley in the past. However, she was too scared of him. She only managed to get a bridle on him once, as he flipped backwards whenever she tried it. That one time, when she took him out to the ring and began to mount up, he shied away from her and she got spooked.
One afternoon, he and I were leaning over the fence, watching the herd come in for an evening watering, and he turned to me and said, "You know, I've been watching you ride the past couple of weeks. Tell ya what, see that horse over there?" He gestured to Bullseye. "He's your horse for the summer. No one rides him but you, unless you say so. No one works with him, unless you ask them to. He's yours. See what you can do."
The next day, I started working with him, and discovered a few things very quickly. He was willing to please, as long as you took things slow. The minute you tried to force him, he would freak out. I got his bridle on the first time just by asking nicely, and that is how we approached everything. And then Wesley set an impossible goal, and told me he wanted me to ride him the next night as an outrider for the chow wagon. This was a position of much risk and little safety. I would have to cross roads and ride solo at a fast pace, and mount and dismount three times to open and close gates. I could not fail. I could not get thrown. I would be carrying a radio and providing an escort for the mules over the five mile stretch of hill country terrain, so I had to stay seated and in control.
My first ride on Bullseye, we cantered along the stretch of grass bordering the camp road, riding up ahead and stopping traffic for the mule wagon to come by. He tried to throw me twice that night. I laughed at him. We made it through all our tests just fine.
The entire next week, he had a bucking fit twice every evening during our ride. I always laughed and never came off. The following week, he tried once every night. After that, he kind of gave up. I rode him every day that summer, and we became more bonded through our many little trials. Once, a deer bolted right in front of him, and he wanted to spook and run off, but I held him tight and calmed him down. We got lost in the thicket together and only made it out by working as a team. Little incidents like that.
At the end of the day, he was the horse that wouldn't go away. I always untacked him first, then went around untacking the other horses. Each of us wranglers had to untack at least five horses to do our fair share. After he pulled the saddles and bridles off, they were free to leave for the pasture, but Bullseye wouldn't leave. Instead, he followed behind me as I worked with the other horses, rubbing his forehead on my back and resting his chin on my shoulder. This was sometimes annoying but I also found it endearing.
At the end of the summer, I didn't want to part with him. I offered Wesley, and the boy scouts, $1000 for him, and eventually they complied (after some other conditions were met).
It took six months or more before the herd passed the three negative Coggins tests that were required before the swamp fever ban could be lifted. (We had to put down three horses due to EIA when the summer started, and so blood tests were taking every two months.) Finally, just after Spring Break, Wesley brought him three hours northeast to a barn in College Station, loaded again in the stock trailer, since he could not be loaded in the two horse trailer.
"This horse of yours," said Wesley in greeting, "is a butthead. It took four hours to get him in the trailer. He got away and went galloping out on to the property (some two thousand acres), and I had to get on Bob and rope him, then lead him in like last time."
"Oh, and he hasn't been touched since you left."
More on the next phase of our life together another time.

FATHOMLESS Easter Sunday, and I am hurrying into church, late as usual. I hold my little son's hand and scan the side of the plain brown building, trying to determine the fastest route into the Sanctuary. I decide on the side office door, and also to save time by going "as the crow flies", across a stretch of grassy lawn. My wedge heels cut into the grass as I lead my little boy at a fast clip into the hallway and around the corner to rows of chairs set up behind the main glass door entrance to the Sanctuary. I had never seen so people at this church, so much need for overfill seating before.
A mild wind had been blowing outside, and the sky was heavy with grey clouds and the hint of rain, a typical spring day. As we sat and listened to the choir sing, I crossed my feet and noticed blades of grass, sticky with dew, clinging to my black heels, a conspicious sign of spring afoot.
Spring is a time of rebirth, and I think there is no time like Easter Sunday to experience spiritual growth. Contemplation of the sacrifice made for us by God and his Son evokes a strong sense of humility and awakens longings to be greater, to know deeper, to strive harder to be a good servant in me. Easter Sunday is a reminder of the powerful lesson it took me most of my lifetime to comprehend, that Jesus loves ME enough to have made that sacrifice to bring me closer to his Father.
On this day, the clouds began to darken during the service rapidly. Midway through, thunder was booming outside. I looked out the window to watch how hard the rain was falling, and was shocked that it appeared dark as night outside. Rain pelted the ground, and I thought how odd it seemed that just minutes ago I had been racing across the grass in heels, and how no one would be doing that after the service.
The sermon this day was focused on Mary Magdalene, which I think was a good choice. She was the only one who had front row access to the whole ordeal, from the beginning of her disciplehood (as I do consider Mary a true disciple), through the arrest and torture of Jesus, during his time on the cross and during transformation and ascension.
I tried to imagine what the disciples felt during the week of Passover and through the stages of Jesus's sacrifice. I think coming into Jerusalem that week must have been like my entrance into church that day. At that time, the political climate was starting to darken ever slightly, but the force of what was to come was still mild, the tugging of a wind and a movement of a cloud. The disciples must have been expectant with new beginning, like the earth beneath my shoes and the ripe grass on my shoes. They were waiting for something amazing to happen.
The arrest and sentencing of Jesus, his public torture, must have seemed like a powerful storm. The disciples probably felt tremors of excitement and fear, like that which fills us when the lightning lights up that sky outside the church. When those clouds darkened so intensely, I half expected to hear a curtain rip in the background, and I had a visual of the moment Jesus left his mortal body. They say the sky grew unusually dark in those final moments. I can see him there on the cross, in mortal agony, as a dark sky swept in around him and the wind picked up.
It seems like I have felt like that myself, metaphorically. When I think about the time of my spiritual awakening, I remember it as a time of unusual darkness in my soul. Winds of despair were turbulent inside me, but the only thing that kept me strong was the realization that God was there, holding me in the palm of his hand, and that He had never left me. I had left the church, and I had turned my back on God, and when I realized that at my darkest hour, He was right there with me, giving me the strength to rally on, I was overwhelmed.
Now, granted, God knows what He is doing. He knew that in order to reach me, I would have to have the message received in what I term "the Trifecta" - on a physical, mental, and emotional plane. That same week that I was afflicted physically, I also viewed The Passion of the Christ AND became absorbed in James Michener's "The Source", and in seven days, the message had been received and absorbed, and I re-committed my life to Christ.
The sermon this day was focused on what Mary found when she reached the tomb of Jesus. I can't imagine the many emotions she must have felt when confronted with angels instead of death.
Rebirth. Hope. It takes many forms. For Mary, this day, it took the form of angels and a gardener who called her by name. For her, and for us all, the sun did come out, and its radiance was astounding.

I thought it was April Showers, May Flowers? Found while geocaching in The Woodlands. The flowers are out, and I am trying to take pictures of them all this year. Loving Spring!

JUST YOU AND ME AND THE RIVER FRIO

As I walked along the halls of work, a man came out of a room. He was my "Spanish tutor" these days, and he asked me how I was doing in spanish. The day before, he had asked me the same question, then repeated it in a second tone of voice, and added, mi amore, to which I laughed, "Mi amore? Nooo..."
Today, when he asked me, I exchanged with him what my plans were, and he tells me of his. I showed him my tires I was hanging and he said it reminded him of tubing down the river.
"You like the Frio River?" he asks, and I affirm.
"Let's go. Just you and me and the River Frio."
He sings a song of drifting along, bottle in the hand, tells me his favorite liquor, asks me mine. I am not sure I remember what mine is, plus I really have to do my task now. Along the way, I think about this little dream of his.
This man, he is much older than me. In fact, he has a son that works with us as well who is the same age as me (and quite the hunk). I had asked him of his wife, and he tells me of being married 35 years. He tells me the problem with marriage is this: that sometimes one of the peoples likes another person, but they cannot go with the other person because there are two of you, married. Both peoples need to agree. Sometimes the person says they love the other one so much that they will not allow the other people to go to someone else.
I love it that he tells me this. It kind of cracks me up because it is such a guy thing. Sometimes I think if guys had their way, they'd still be out there scamming if women didn't rein them in. To me, I find that monogamy is much easier for women.
I also understand what it is like to love more than one person. I think I lived like that a lot. I could straddle that fence better than anyone back in my day. It's not my day anymore, and his days are passing him by, too. I think of his plan to take me dancing sometime, and that's fine, I would like to cut a rug and he might do as a dancing partner. Of course, he knows that him and I on a river fine is nothing but the fantasy of an old man drifting along as life is passing by.
Every now and then we would like to catch our past as it swims by us and see its gills sparkle in the sun before we toss it back. The unfortunate truth of youth is that it fades, and so does opportunity. I thought for a moment that maybe if I was still young and free, I might take him up on that idea. I might dance with him until night time stars twinkled a warning, and drank until I was thirsty again. I might wink back at him and share that bottle.
Then again, maybe I wouldn't. In my prime, I might have walked right past him with my eyes wide open and never have noticed him. In fact, when we talk about the Frio River, I think it is possible I have. His idea of a good time is being surrounded by family, grilling fajitas and drinking a cool one and enjoying the cool, shallow waters of the river. He favors a wading spot in the Frio River outside the perimeter of Garner State Park. I might even have seen his family there before, as I walked by with my two sons on a camping adventure once. I stopped with the younger one to take this picture as a family much like ole Francisco's surrounded me. The idea that we cross paths with strangers before we ever met is such a wild one to me. This world is so small, and yet so mind-boggling huge.
At any rate, when he smiles at me and tells me, "this color looks good on you, very pretty...for a pretty girl", it makes me smile, and feel a bit like the girl I used to be. I remember that attraction and a good time used to be enough. I am much more practical now. These days, it is not. I am so much more complicated, or maybe just have a better sense of what I need. The list gets longer the older I get.
It's nice, though, to look back and think about how fun that used to be, when caring wasn't worth caring about. Dangling your hands in the waters and wondering what you might catch, just you and me down on the River Frio.

Winner's Dog

Well, this is not exactly the entry I thought I would be writing tonight.

All yesterday, I stewed an essay in my head. That essay started with waxing dramatic about the laying down of the leash and the sparky thin choke chain. I had decided over the past week that if my dog did not perform well, I was going to "retire" him from the conformation ring.
It didn't mean I was giving up working him, just that we were going to turn our nose in a different direction, and concentrate on obedience instead, or agility. I have struggled with this for a long time, because I really wanted to "finish" him (get the 15 points needed for him to be a Champion, and therefore deemed more valuable to breed).

It had started to seem, though, like we were banging our head up against the wall. After two days in Canton last fall and two days in Navasota the previous weekend with no wins and our spotty history in previous shows, I was beginning to feel that I was not getting anywhere fast, and that I was wasting a lot of money doing it.
The dog was turning five this year and had only enough wins to count on one hand. Last weekend, a girl I had seen at several shows was watching the Best of Breed competition with me. We were both marveling over one of the "specials", Rowan, when I mentioned to the girl I was thinking about retiring my dog.
"Your blue boy?", she says. I nod and tell her he hasn't been placing and I don't think he is going to. "Yeah, he's not the kind of dog that wins around here," she says nonchalantly, and turns her eyes back to the ring.

I am not sure exactly what she was intending to mean, but as I mulled it over, I looked at the dogs in the ring and could see what she meant. It seemed that, compared to these "specials", my dog was missing something. He was long and lean where those dogs were stocky and compact. He was artistry in motion, while those dogs were balanced and thick in hair and barrel. That's not to say he's not beautiful, but I am a bit partial.
At this week's show in Crosby, I set up near this same girl again. The first day of the weekend show, we got "dumped". Third place out of three in the class. I drove home, examining how I felt about the idea of not showing him in conformation again. I realized very quickly that suprisingly, I felt at peace with the whole thing.

I related it to my relationship with my horse, or how I felt about selling him. My dream had been to belong with him forever. My dream with Scout was one of points, ribbons, puppies, knowledge, but in both, what I really wanted was an extraordinary connection with an animal. I wanted to be able to demonstrate that I could be exceptional by working with a challenging animal - in Bullseye's case, a formerly abused, fearful horse, and in Scout's case, a "green" dog wiht a "green" owner/handler. By selling the horse, by retiring the dog, what I am really saying is "I give up on you", and that is a really hard thing for me to do. All who know me know I don't give up easily, but nor do I always get what I want.

At any rate, retirement was actually started to sound better and better. I was almost out of all my grooming sprays and coat conditioners and was glad to be rid of the grooming stand...for a while. Not forever. In my mind, there is already another puppy on the horizon, one I will have the experience to guide and show correctly, from the beginning. One I pick based on what I have learned from this time listening and watching, one to grow on. I realized as I drove home that I don't think I want to stop showing dogs altogether.
I will admit I still get a little thrill out of the whole thing, out of cutting and blow-drying his hair on the grooming stand, of walking into the arena in my suit with "bait" in the pocket and him bouncing beside me, and most of all, of hearing, "Australian Sheperd, Open Blue, Catalog Order Please!", and walking in to begin the short production of trying to present the dog in its best angles. It is the constant stream of undesirable ribbons that begins to get me down. My husband and I joke about the possible uses of all the blue ribbons he has won, but under the joke is the sad fact that there are just not enough purple ribbons to make it worth the gas and effort.

This second day of the show, I agonized over every inconvenience. I contemplated skipping the show and going to church instead, I groaned about waking up early, I almost didn't want to do any grooming at all. It felt like a waste of effort, but I did it all anyway.

I decided I was going to go out with a bang, and got him ring ready. When we were standing outside the ring waiting for our turn, a woman looked at Scout and said to me, "He's a nice dog". When dog show folks say nice, it doesn't usually mean friendly. I told her thanks, and mentioned I was thought so, too, but I was going to retire him, since he couldn't seem to win. She told me she thought he could be finished, that he was really nice.

Then she asked me if I remembered she and her friend, from the show in Canton. They were the ones who helped me out, when I had a flat tire and had bummed a ride to the show. "He should have won his class yesterday", the one said. "I liked him the best of all of them". They asked about his breeding. "Who's he out of again?" "Who's he by?" They recognized the lines on both sides, and also were aware that his dam passed away last week.

They asked me if I was interested in their opinion after our class, if they could see any handler flaws or glaring conformation issues. This is what I wanted to do. Is it the dog, or is it me? I have wondered. I have contemplated getting a handler for a couple of years, because at least I could eliminate that issue.

We went in for our class, Open Blue, and were picked for first. When I came back out, the woman was excited. She told me she saw a couple of handling issues we could tweak, and she said basically my dog is correct, that he has very little flaws. She mentioned a back toe that pokes out and sometimes the front falls apart, but that all could be stacked out, and that the dog free stacks very well himself anyway. She quickly explained to me how to correct something I was doing wrong with the front legs, and then sent me back in the ring for round two. Again, my dog was selected for the first place, a purple ribbon for the Winner's Dog.

When I came out of the ring this time, there were a lot of congrats, and a girl I had met at previous shows through the years but who had never been very friendly to me (Shelley) gave me a piece of venison jerky for the bait for the next round. "Get some animation in him," she says, "Keep it for the class". Then we went back in to compete for Best of Breed, which I figured would go to the special, and my new friends were behind me going "Psst! Now lift his neck up! Show him the bait!" I was glad that they really wanted him to win, despite my handling.

After the judge selected him for Best of Winners (giving the Best of Breed to the "special" - a dog named Badge), she shoke my hand and said "I really liked your dog".

Everyone told me this judge was "mean" and yelled a lot, but this day, when we got our pictures taken, she told me again she liked him, and "sorry I didn't put you up for Breed". It was the nicest thing a judge has ever said to me.

Afterwards, I had a mini handling clinic with the women from the Canton show. Both of them, one whose dog beat me yesterday, were just admiring how nice he was. They mentioned a couple of minor flaws (he's rolling a bit in the hind, probably because of the short upper arm, but you can exercise him more and that will help, his coat's a little thin but that shouldn't matter that much) and pointed out some grooming errors. They felt sure that with some tweaking in my handling, he could and should finish.

It made me see things differently. The day before, I had thought that maybe it was neither one of our faults that we couldn't make it work. Maybe it was just fate, just the luck of the draw that he would stay small and light while the other dogs got husky and thick with fur. Maybe I had just been trying to shove a circle into a square peg, just not the right shape to get the job done.

Today, I see it completely differently. Imperfect practice is, after all, still imperfect, and my vision hasn't gotten good enough to see us completely objectively.

This woman fills me up and gives me the courage to keep going. If the road is not getting us there, it is time to change something, but maybe not slow our stroll. "Maybe put him with a handler, just to finish him", she says. "If you could afford it."

"Or," she says, "I could show him for you. I wouldn't charge you very much."

A bit later, I am getting ready to leave, and see Sharon again, the one I had set up by and talked to this and last weekend. I told her a bit about where I had been, and she also offers to show him for me, saying she could probably finish him for me. I tell her I am going to get her card before I leave, but I leave without seeing her again.

That's okay. I have a card in my shoe, given to me by the lady who was so helpful to me today.

I turn the card over in my hand and smile a little when I see her name. It just seems so fitting.

Hope.

SPRING IN TEXASI had an amazing time geocaching in bluebonnet country on the way to and from Navasota for a dog show.

More to follow

BOOK REVIEW

VANITY OF DULUOZ

by Jack Kerouac

"Vanity of vanities, all is vanity"

Ecclesiastes 1:2

My, my, Jack. What have you done?

The answer, it seems, is "everything under the sun".

This book starts and ends with reference to Ecclesiates, or the "Wisdom of Solomon", from the Old Testament. It shows a Jack who, in his older years, did in fact turn back to his "little lamby Jesus", as opposed to the Buddhism heavily endorsed in the last Kerouac book I reviewed (see Dharma Bums).

It is also the prattle of old and hardened Jack, heavily hitting the sauce during this time and entrenched in the cultural viewpoint of his mother. The book was written in a tone directed towards his third "wifey", Stella Sampas, in an attempt to show her where he had been and how he got to where he is now. The story is a recap of Jack's "formative" years, covering time periods from his early years as a student and athlete in Lowell, MA, to his time in the Merchant Marine, and ending with the death of his father in 1944. It is essentially the description of the events that led him to find his calling as a writer.

It is also the most boring and tedious work I have read of his, and runs a close tie for the most difficult Kerouac book for me to finish (up there with Visions of Cody). I would not recommend this book to anyone who was not a serious Kerouac fan like myself. In truth, it was only my desire to know all about his life and read every line he has written that compelled me to finish this book. I kept wanting to put it down in place of another fiction novel.

The book is somewhat interesting in that it includes details from Kerouac's life history not found in other places. Some of the stories from the Merchant Marine days are actually fascinating, including his travel to exotic locations. It amused me to read stories about him leaving the boat when he wasn't supposed to to get drunk somewhere, sometimes losing all his money in the meantime and having complicated scenarios where he has to somehow get the money to get back to the boat. To know about what inspired him to write before he wrote anything that amounted to much was engaging, and I would love to get my hands on a copy of The Sea is My Brother, or the manuscript he lost in a taxi cab that was never recovered or published.

Another facet of the book that I found interesting as well is how he refers to his friends, or doesn't, in this book. By this time in Jack's life, his friendship with Allen Ginsberg had lasted through several decades. Ginsberg was, I believe, instrumental in getting Jack published and getting him literary attention. Even though their friendship had suffered a cooling off period due to Kerouac absorbing some of his mothers anti-sematicism, Ginsberg was still victim to phone calls in the wee hours of the morning from a drunken Jack. However, Kerouac says very little about Ginsberg in this book, even though this was a significant friendship during this time period, and what he does say is not very nice ("I never really liked him much", also a suggestion that Jack and his first wife felt Allen to be lecherous). The book does, however, wax sentimental about William Burroughs (all these people by pseudonym, of course), who by this point had put Kerouac clean out of his life for all his wine-reeking offensiveness as a friend.

Historically, this book is important in terms of understanding how Jack the boy became Jack the man, who published many novels of importance during his lifetime. However, it is written with little of Jack's usual "poetry-like prose", is missing the language that made his previous books so popular. It is a good story without the narrative and depth to support it. The style is tedious and the tone pretentious, and I would put any other Kerouac book in front of this one as more accurate examples of what I loved about his writing.

TYPED

She shakes her head and looks at me.
"I still can't believe that. I just can't imagine it," she says.
We are standing outside on the wooden balcony patio of a club where we have come to see my first lover perform. I am talking to an old friend, someone I knew in my teenage years and probably haven't seen in over fifteen years.
"I just would never imagine that you would have married a soldier. That doesn't seem like your type at all."
"Why?" I ask her all the while thinking, I had a "type"? I ask for elaboration. "Because I was all 'peace, love, and -fff'-?" I make a sound of an inhale while holding my fingers up to my mouth, as if I was smoking a joint.
"Yeah, because of the peace, love, and fff..." she says, also bringing her hand up to her mouth as if she is smoking some herb, and laughing at me. Suddenly the years catch up with me, and I remember the girl she must be remembering, the one in long boot cut jeans and funky necklaces, hanging out with the long haired boys with a roach clip in my pocket, a Kerouac book in my hand, and The Beatles playing on a cassette tape in the car.
The funny thing is I don't feel like I have changed at all. I myself have been caught up in the dilemma of being married to someone who supports something I completely oppose. I would nonviolently protest his deployments but no one seemed to notice. I would stick a flower in the muzzle of his gun, if he was allowed to bring it home.
I don't support the war, but the war supports me, I used to quip while anxiously awaiting his letters home. Or, I don't support the war, but I support my soldier, while filling care packages to go overseas to an APO for sorting before being delivered to a base in the desert.
I never meant to marry into the military, and I tell her a story about how my college boyfriend was headed to the military until we got serious, and I told him how adamant I was that I would not be a military wife. He decided to go in another direction instead, and eventually I ended up breaking his heart anyway, to marry this man, this man who was NOT going to be a soldier but still had a contract for a few years with the National Guard. Then poof, 9/11 happened, and that which never happened before started happening - they started sending the National Guard, our "weekend warriors", overseas to fight the war on terrorism. Suddenly three of the ten years we have been married has been spent apart while he fights, something I don't believe in, for our "freedom".
At any rate, I am wondering what "type" of person she would have imagined me with. Would he have long hair and some kind of eclectic profession, some sensitive pony-tailed guitar player? I run through my top five loves in my head again, trying to determine if I had a "type".
Meanwhile we are there to watch one of those five perform with his band onstage. I was struck by something while watching him that I never noticed before, in all these years of rememberance of years past. There was something remiscent in his jaw structure, in his mannerism, his profile...Oh. I never noticed before how very much he looks like my college boyfriend. He makes a face a couple times on stage that was exactly like one R used to make to me sometimes. And I realize that maybe, just maybe, I had some kind of type there, some physical characteristics I was looking for without even realizing it.
Maybe it is a little unfair to lump them together. After all, their life circumstances and professional interests are completely different...
But for a moment there, watching him center stage, I think...maybe I did have a type after all.

ADVENTURES IN CACHING

Texas Challenge 09

Fredericksburg, TX

This year's Texas Challenge was much different than last year's, both in the individual and collective experience, and in format and style. Now for weeks the weather has been gorgeous and I have been dying to go camping, and go on a wild caching spree. Of course, as Nature would have it (she is such a bitch), it turned nasty and cold the weekend of this much anticipated event. There were a lot of cold cachers out there (172 logged the event last I looked)!

I planned on caching on the way out there on the five hour drive or so from northwest Houston, but the very first one I stopped at, it just got me pissed off and not wanting to cache. It was so cold and the rain was just biting into me, and I took one look and said "&^%$ this!"
Luckily for us (me), the rain let up when we hit the other side of San Antonio. I was able to grab a handful of caches around Blanco, off 281, before Ted reined me in and said we had to get going. (My favorite one was Kokopelli's Hangout. It is a really cool area and I am glad we stopped there.)

We had to get to the campsite in enough time to check in, pitch our tent, get situated, and then we had to get down the road to go to an event nearby, in the little town of Luckenbach. Don't tell me you don't know the song! (If you do, sing along...let's go to Luckenbach Texas, with Waylon and Willie and the boys). Here are my boys outside the old post office, converted to a country store with a bar in the back (smoking area only). Around the corner was a dance hall with live music, and a little feed shack to buy some food. Elisa bought me a beer while we were here and we looked for a cache together. I really wanted to spend more time with her but both of us had our families pulling us different directions.

Last year I took my oldest son to the Challenge, and he and I camped it. This year, we went as a family and took our new tent our friends Mari and Todd gave us for Christmas. Boy was it cold! The first night the wind about blew our tent away. I saw vacancies at the local hotels and kept trying to convince Ted we should reconsider our accomodations, but he was insistent that we camp.

When I went last year, it was the sixth Annual Challenge based on a system that had worked over the years, but had generated a lot of geographic rivalry. Last year, there were a lot of disgruntled cachers, particularly from our area, seeing as that our last (or was it third?) place ammo can was kicked over to us instead of being treated with respect. Many people also felt the scoring was sketchy. There was talk of torn chads like you hadn't seen since Bush's brother helped him with the election....

This year, "Mrs Captain Picard", aka Julie, along with several Central Texas cachers, organized a different kind of Challenge. You could enter the competitive event, which previously was the only event, or you could choose to do "casual caching". The Challenge Hide Team hid around seventy caches all around Fredericksburg and surrounding areas. For each one that you found, you stamped a card, and when you returned that afternoon, you received a ticket for each stamp. The competitive challenge was not based region to region (usually we have four: North, Southeast, Central, or West) but team to team, with divisions for coed versus single sex teams and different age brackets. This competition was held at Enchanted Rock, which is a beautiful big dome shaped rock (technically an exfoilation dome) in a scenic spot in the Hill Country of Texas. Instead of my doing the competitive cache with other SE Tx cachers, the four of us did the casual caching together.

The town of Fredericksburg itself has its charms. It is an old German town that stood by its roots and still has a Main Street filled with unique stores that caters now to a tourist crowd who come to enjoy E Rock, German food, antique shopping, and wineries. This sleepy hamlet, albeit Spring Break and German festivals, boasts to be America's #2 Wine Destination. It also hosts fascinating eateries, such as the original Porky's restaurant, at which we took this photo at the end of the casual caching.

My husband kept telling me about this awesome pulled pork sandwich he had there about two months ago when doing more processing of soldiers for upcoming deployments. I wanted to check it out, but when we got there, I had to order a cheeseburger instead of the pulled pork. He says I was missing out, but really I had missed out the night before, because I didn't realize the Luckenbach "feed shack" was cash only, and we were only able to get chili dogs and water with the dollars we had on us.

Now, my caching experience was not what I thought it would be, but it turned out all right. Originally, my friend Elisa and I were going to ditch the guys at a fishing hole with a child, and take the other child caching with us. We were going to hit it! Unfortunately, the weather did not favor that plan. ):

It was blustery and cold that first morning, the morning of the Challenge, so instead of cooking a hot breakfast over the grill that we planned, we all piled in the car to head into town for some kolaches...Now if there is one thing I love about German food working its way into Texas consciousness, it's the kolache!

So we were all in the car and I was texting Elisa, but she didn't get my message until she was at the campsite looking for me. She had to come there to pick up her card anyway, but I felt bad about missing her. By the time she called me, we were finding our first cache of the day.

We spent the day driving all around the town hunting caches. My plan for maximizing our cache find went out the window with the change of plans to go with our families instead of us girls. We managed to find a lot right in the town before the kids started insisting on going to a park. We decided to deviate from the Challenge caches and go after two non-Challenge caches there in town that were at a park. When we did this, I realized that the little one's diaper had gotten wet and leaked out all over both the pairs of pants he was wearing (we were all layered with clothing due to the forty degree temperature outside).

I had new diapers with us but not new pants, so we decided to go back to the campsite and regroup. This took about half an hour out of our day and really threw us off our rhythm. After this interruption, we headed south instead of north to town, and started grabbing some of the caches "off the beaten path" on back roads. The back roads made Ted nostalgic for his hometown and he started going on and on about how much he hates living in the city and we should get a place in the country. Our route led us to many wineries (the Hide Team hid a bunch outside these places), and once he started wine tasting to pass the time while I hunted the cache, he got even more nostalgic.

Some of the caches were hidden outside old school houses from earlier last century. These were double ticket items, in an attempt to generate more visits to them. At one of the ones like this we stopped at, an elderly German lady who went to school there as a child had some treats out and gave us tours, telling us stories about her days there at the school and what life was like for her growing up in the area.

At our last cache of the day, I ran into some friends of mine from back home who had done the competitive Challenge that morning. They were out hitting casual caches now, but they were very worn out! These women are also my friends on Facebook, which has turned out to be a good vehicle to get to know people better. At this stop, there was also a lady who was videotaping people finding the cache for a documentary she was doing.

By the time we finished eating at Porky's, it was time to turn in our cards at the pavilion near the campsite. It seemed like everyone in my family was ready to take a nap now except for me. I wanted to be there to see what was going to happen next. We put the twenty three tickets we had earned in the raffle. I was hoping to end up with the grand prize, a weekend getaway at a Bed and Breakfast there in Fredericksburg, but my friend Joy won that instead. We ended up with a duffel bag, some kitty cat tiles, and a couple kids toys. I am sure Julie did not plan on spending hours up there on stage giving away prizes, but there were just so many of them! It made everyone feel like a winner to get something.

They actually had to put the raffle on hold to get to the rest of the event, which was announcing winners of the creative cache contest, and then the main event, announcing the winning teams from the competition earlier. To everyone's surprise (most of all, the four people on the team), one of our teams won their division! This team was comprised of three fellas and a girl that actually I met about a couple months ago, right after she moved to the area, and encouraged to come to a local event, where I introduced her to one of the other guys (my attempt at matchmaking), who invited her to come play with them this weekend. It was exciting for me to see them then go on to win the prize together, which was the geocoin minted for the Challenge on a necklace.

The whole weekend, what was so amazing to me is that I didn't hear a single complaint. Not about the scoring, not about the way things were run, about the organization, nothing. Well, maybe the weather. It astounded me and I think was a testament to how well this year's Challenge Team did at planning. There was no regional animosity, and I think that was a benefit of moving to the different format. I hope they keep this format in the future.

As for us, we made it through the weekend without anyone freezing to death. We got about 39 caches for the trip, which was a decent amount. It is actually an amazing number when you consider that my husband who has about a four cache limit was with us, and we got an average of 13 caches for the three days we were doing this. We got another handful of finds on the way back, until we went after one in Sequin that not only was off the beaten path but was a tough micro to boot. We didn't find it but we lost a lot of time, and suddenly all caching was halted so we could make it back home in a timely fashion.

We made it through a weekend camping with a fight or an injury, so I am pretty happy about that. The children all said they had fun and are interested in camping again, which I am also happy about. I think that anyone who didn't go this year because of previous year's experiences really missed out. It was actually a really great time.

TODAY'S GOSPEL READING....

At the church service today, the subject was the wrath of Caiaphas. The gospel example given was John 18:12-23, with the parts about Peter taken out. It read a little something like this:
Then the detachment of soldiers with its commander and the Jewish officals arrested Jesus. They bound him and brought him first to Annas, who was the father in law of Caiaphas, the high priest that year. Caiaphas was the one who had advised the Jews that it would be good if one man died for the people.
Meanwhile, the high priest questioned Jesus about his disciples and his teachings.
"I have spoken openly to the world," Jesus replied. "I have always taught in synagogues or at the temple, where all the Jews come together. I have said nothing in secret. Why question me? Ask those who heard me. Surely they know what I said."
When Jesus said this, one of the officials nearby struck him in the face. "Is this the way you answer the high priest?" he demanded.
"If I said something wrong," Jesus replied. "testify as to what is wrong. But if I spoke the truth, why did you strike me?" Then Annas sent him, still bound, to Caiaphas the high priest.
The sermon followup (questions to think about in the week ahead) also referenced the following passage from John 11:49-50.
Then one of them, named Caiaphas, who was high priest that year, spoke up. "You know nothing at all! You do not realize that it is better for you that one man die for the people than the whole nation perish."

The study question did not, however, mention the following line, which I feel is significant:
He did not say this on his own, but as the high priest that year, he prophesied that Jesus would die for the Jewish nation, and not only for that nation but also for the scattered children of God, to bring them together and make them one.
Nor the next, which also is significant, but did not seem to go with the rest of the passage:
So from that day on they plotted to take his life.

During the sermon, I found myself trying to put the pieces of this puzzle into a congruent whole that matched where the minister was going with it. Personally, I don't think the first part, the actual reading, demonstrated any wrath on Caiaphas' part. Rather, it was Annas that Jesus was brought to, and a guard who smacked him, and even in the subsequent passages there is very little about Caiaphas. This Gospel seems to leave out some details about what may or may not have transpired between Jesus and Caiaphas - it hints that after this incident in front of Annas, Jesus was taken to see Caiaphas, but then, after an interjection about Peter again, the story picks right up with Jesus being taken to Pontias Pilate. In Luke, there is even less detail.

The referenced verse from John 11 doesn't really show, to me, wrath or rage on Caiaphas' part, either. It is true that at first the verse reads as if Caiaphas would have Jesus die for the greater good, but then it contradicts that, as if he did not say this in anger at all, but simply as part of a prophecy regarding the way the situation would play out. Then, however, the text switches to suggesting that the Sanhedrin would then cause the prophecy to come true by their own actions, by plotting the death of Jesus.

Interestingly, the Gospels of Matthew and Mark tell a more detailed version of the same events. In those two books, there is an account of the interaction between Caiaphas and Jesus (Matthew 26:57-68, Mark 53-64).

I do see the wrath of Caiaphus here, in these lines:

Again the high priest asked him, "Are you the Christ, the Son of the Blessed One?"

"I am", said Jesus. "And you will see the Son of Man sitting at the right hand of the Mighty One and coming on the clouds of heaven."

The high priest tore his clothes. "Why do we need more witnesses?" he asked. "You have heard thie blasphemy. What do you think?"

They all condemned him worthy of death.

Mark 14: 60-65

However, I am postulating a theory on Caiaphas. What if, instead of playing the bad guy, he is simply serving his role in God's plan? What if it truly is happening according to the prophecy?

After all, the events have unfolded much like the prophecies found in the stories of David, the Psalms. None of it has been much of a surprise for Jesus, who himself prophesized his own death three times on the way to Jerusalem. It happened much like he said it would, when speaking to his disciples, like here in Mark 10:33-34:

"We are going up to Jerusalem," he said, "and the Son of Man will be betrayed to the chief priests and teachers of the law. They will condemn him to death and will hand him over to the Gentiles, who will mock him and spit on him, flog him and kill him. Three days later, he will rise."

I think it is easy to look at Caiaphas and see wrath, see the baseness of human emotion that pushed him to seek the death of Jesus. I see greed, in Judas, who turned him in. I see fear in Peter, a desire to avoid a mortal death and in return, betray his friend and leader. However, in all of them, I see men playing a role in a human drama in a pivotal political scene, with God's direction. What if it was the voice of God that inspired the prophecy of Caiaphas mentioned in John 11: 51? Without these men's weaknesses, the greatest moment for us sinners would not have happened. (Maybe we exclude Peter on that one - however, what purpose would it have served for him to be crucified along with Jesus for admitting him? He had greater work to do on the earth yet following the death of Christ). In the death of Jesus, we were saved, and the grace of God became available to us through him, and his sacrifice. Without these men, this might not have happened, and then where would we all be? What if it happened exactly as it was orchestrated, with the "bad men" led by God's hand?

We know God is powerful, and awesome. We have seen the amazing things he can do. He alone chose this place, and this time, to send his Son. He lead him right into the hornet's nest, a political drama about to unfold that would set the course of history. Do we think it was by accident? The prophecy of Caiaphas did turn out true - this one man died, and it brought the scattered children of God together and made them one, saved through the blood of the lamb.

The sermon given that day suggested that Caiaphas was acting out of selfish, worldy pursuits, instead of for a higher purpose. I think that in fact, he played the role that he was fated to play, and simply brought about the circumstances where we would be made anew in the grace of God through his Son, Jesus.

It was, in fact, according to the prophecy. The prophecies of Jesus himself about his own death, Caiaphas' forecast, the striking coincidences in the Psalms, to me lay out a grand design. Who are we to question God's plan? It makes me think that maybe even the bad experiences, even the people we question about and are repulsed by their actions, are here in our lives for a reason.

TRAVEL BUG FEATURE STORY # 6
IT'S A SMALL WORLD AFTER ALL
I haven't written about travel bugs in a while. In fact, I had to go all the way back to last summer to see what feature # was next in the series I meant to write about my favorite ones. It's not that I am not as interested in them. In fact, I have a contest going on with my own right now that is kind of fun. I think I just moved on to other topics instead. Maybe I was having too much fun with my digital camera and telling stories to go along with all the pictures I've been taking.
Anyway something weird and wonderful happened to one of my travel bugs that I just have to share.
One of the very first travel bugs I ever made up and sent out into the world was Love Potion #8.5. It is a little vial of perfume with a charm hanging off it, something given to me by Pegah back in high school, and the name is sort of a joke about my husband and I's "not-quite-perfect" love spell. Anyway, I attached this item to the dog tag I bought off the website and sent it out with the goal of heading to Colorado Springs, where we met. I also outlined some very specific places I would love to have a picture of it in front of, places of significance in our relationship and the early months of our dating (like in front of the "Kissing Camels" rock in Garden of the Gods, where we had our first kiss).
Anyway, the bug managed to make it into the hands of a cacher who promised to take it to Colorado after three brief months, and after stopping in Arkansas and California along the way. I thought it would reach its goal really quickly. Then it didn't actually get dropped for several months, and then cachers started moving it the wrong direction in Colorado. Then, a year and four months into its journey (and on my son's birthday), it got picked up by a cacher who said he goes to Colorado Springs, and even Manitou, one of the places I mentioned, fairly often, and he had asked if I wanted him to hang on to it until next time he went.
So, a year and a half later, he finally makes it down to the Springs area. (Meanwhile he had taken it on a lovely tour of Paris with him). He drops it off in a cache.
But not just any cache. This is where the story gets weird.
I check out the cache he places it in, Weasel COS, and it strikes me that the name of the cache and the name of the hider are both familiar to me. This is a unique cache owned, partially, by h2o z, who lives in Klamath Falls, Oregon, the place where my husband and I moved right after our early courtship in the Springs area. This same cacher has a cache called Weasel in Klamath Falls that we found on our visit to that area this summer! (He is also a Charter Member of geocaching.com).
So, I think it is really strange that of all my 62 trackables I own, that the one that symbolizes my husband and I's relationship ends up in a cache on CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN BLVD for pete's sakes (the main drag to the zoo, where I worked when I lived there), in a cache owned by someone who lives in my husband's hometown, a town of 19,000 halfway across the country!
Weird.

Funny GIRL
Some people say I don't have a sense of humor. They think I am too serious, or don't laugh enough at their jokes, or need to lighten up. I don't think that it means I don't have a sense of humor.
Because I know I do. I make myself laugh all the time.
Sometimes writing geocaching logs online cracks me up. I am totally amused by what I write, but it is a joke with no audience, nobody else to let in on the punchlines.
So I am going to let you in the joke. If I make you laugh, let me know...in a comment, or email, or in a message from your geocaching profile....

hardings couldn't find K's Cache (Traditional Cache)
This cache is giving me an existential crisis. Like, I am standing there in what appears to be an empty field with nothing but questions. Who am I? Am I K? Do I know K? What am I doing standing here looking at mud with a GPSr in my hand? Am I really a geocacher? I reach for clues but no one answers the phone. I start to wonder if it is a puzzle instead, and I wonder why a likely spot seems so far away from my self. My accurary reads at 16 ft, but I have no idea who and what I am. Until I find my true self, I might not be able to find the cache. Alas, I must leave this place and seek my soul to find the answer to this quest. I will be back, but by then I will have been changed ever so slightly and perhaps only then will I discover the true meaning of where this cache is, and what it all means.

February 8 by hardings (1349 found)
So, it was a dark and windy night...evening...well, around dusk. We stopped to grab this one on the way back from Austin. The wind whipping through the trees made an ominous sound as I made my way along the geotrail and around the briar bushes. A large bird suddenly took off above my head, the wings of an owl flapping along with the mysterious "ooo-ooo". I was getting a little spooked. As I reached over to grab the cache, I let out a spooky sound of my own, of a bit more odiferous nature. After that, I didn't hear any spooky sounds. I think I accidentally stumbled upon the trick to keeping ghosts at bay....took the Tb tag. Thanks for a nice gas..uhm...cache.

And one more...

February 12 by hardings (1350 found)Came by after work. Did I mention I was blonde? that kind of handicaps me sometimes, like today. I saw the gate was locked but also noticed a break in the fence on the right. It was the skinny test, and I took it, and was failing miserably. I kept trying to squeeze through but my female parts were in the way and no matter how much I sucked in, they weren't getting any smaller! After bumping my finger painfully, I decided to look for another way, and that is when I noticed the people gate next to the main gate, which was not locked. Did I mention I was blonde? After that, it was a matter of getting over and approaching from the right direction to be able to spy it, sign the log, and walk off brushing leaves out of my hair and nursing my hurt finger. It's better now, and I got the cache, so hey, thanks for the find.