Digging deep on the mat.

Posted on August 1, 2011 by Dawn Quyle Landau

I’ve been practicing yoga for 15 years and there are a few things that have become clear: I NEED yoga in my life though it’s really hard some days to remember that. At a recent class, the teacher (who I had never studied with) came in and shared that none of what she’d anticipated that morning or planned for, had worked out. She had headed off to class feeling like: “this is going to be one of those days.” We’ve all said that; we’ve all had those mornings. One thing falls the wrong way and the rest of your dominoes seem to follow. Suddenly it’s only 10 am and you’re already feeling like the day is set and you’d be better off back under the covers…waiting for a better day. Our teacher posed this question: What if your job was to water seeds for the rest of your life? What if you were told that they might not grow and they might not change, but you would still need to water them; could you be satisfied just doing the best watering job possible and not worrying about the outcome?

Admittedly, that one threw me for a loop. It’s been popping up ever since she said it. Honestly, no; I don’t think I could be satisfied continuing a task like that, with no visible or foreseeable outcome. However, her point was a good one. Can you go through days where it might not look so hopeful; days when the task at hand does not turn out the way you’d like; invest in relationships and/or lives that have unforeseeable paths and outcomes and just keep doing your best? Isn’t that what life is all about? None of us really know what’s around the bend. We invest emotionally and in other ways in outcomes we anticipate and think we can foresee, but those stories are never really sure or clear, until they’re played out. People change, events happen, turns come in the road that we choose, regardless of whether we anticipated them or not.

When I’m on my game, I look forward to each yoga class because I know I will have 90 minutes when these truths are clear, and a source of strength. I work on remembering that not all the dominoes will necessarily fall, some stand up to the pressure and a new pattern emerges. Othere days, my time on the mat feels endless:  each pose, each vinyasa, is a challenge and my efforts to breath steadily and let my thoughts flow is a true effort. At the end of every one of those classes, I have bowed in true gratitude, a heart felt Namaste on my lips, in my mind and in my heart, to the effort I gave and the fact that I finished feeling stronger. On those days, more than ever, I am especially grateful for the compassion and wisdom that the wonderful yogis in my life (Amy, Michal and others) share with me. I am nurtured by their touch and honored to finish each class with them.

I keep coming back though, and I continue to unroll my yoga mat and work to find a clear path.  When my mind wanders and my life chases me on to the mat, I try to draw from it to hold that Vīrabhadrāsana (warrior pose) a little longer a little fiercer;  surrender to Uttanasana (standing forward fold) a little deeper, or smile when I’m in Adho Mukha Svanasana (downward facing dog) knowing that my own dog, Luke, greets me each day with that pose.  Each pose gives me an opportunity to dig deeper within myself and deeper in to the challenges in life, and within myself, that may always be there.   I need yoga and I keep returning to my mat, digging deep when I’m there, because it continues to remind that life requires that too:  you just have to breath through the hard positions, smile at the absurd and finish stronger than you started.  

Note:  That is not me in warrior (but I do envision it like that), but that is my faithful dog Luke, greeting me this morning.  If you liked this post, please hit the Like button below, or pass it on, with Share button.

Posted in Daily Observations, Honest observations on many things, Humor, Musings, My world, Women's issues, Yoga | Tagged , , , , | 6 Comments

Get me to the plastic surgeon!

Posted on July 31, 2011 by Dawn Quyle Landau

Note:  Ok, yes, there are two posts today. My mind is swirling and writing is the way to clear that… So, it’s your choice: Read both, read one, don’t read any… but you are reading this, so read on.  The point of this is to work on my writing and get it out there. Thanks for tuning in.

So, one week from today, it will all be over.  I’ll probably be nursing a hang over, and wondering what I worried about in the first place.  For several months now I’ve been anticipating my upcoming 30th high school reunion. Just the words 30th reunion make me feel OLD!  When the organizers of this reunion started a 1981 Scituate High reunion page, it seemed like a good idea. However, as the date fast approaches I feel a growing anxiety that I had not anticipated, when I first heard about the reunion. That FB page has been the source of anxiety, humor and all kinds of emotions in between.

For starters: I have not really kept in touch with many people from my graduating class. My high school years were not that ideal, and when I left Scituate after graduation, I left for good.  There were certainly some classic hallmarks: first love (dated him for 3 years, and then had my heart broken); didn’t make cheerleading (did try out), but  belonged to the Boosters; participated in school plays and shows; did ok academically (not the top 10% but not the bottom either); had friends; tried sports (track and basketball… I didn’t really shine in either); and had lots of those classic experiences and moments that make high school, well, high school. There wasn’t a John Hughes movie made in the high school genre that I couldn’t relate to. No wonder my life has a soundtrack, and not surprising I signed up to put together a mix for our reunion.

But, my four years of high school were also some of my hardest years. My family had a lot of issues and I felt like I was constantly trying to fit in and make an a-typical home life look normal to the rest of my world: high school aged teens. I didn’t have the insights I have now; I didn’t realize that lots of other families were not as typical as I thought they were. At that time, just the fact that my mother was single stood out in my mind. In a community that had more than its share of Irish Catholic families, having a mother who went out for drinks and wasn’t always home, seemed extreme and awkward to explain. My father had been killed when I was in 4th grade and in addition to being an obvious trauma for my siblings and I, it was one more thing that marked us as odd kids out.  There were no grief groups then, we didn’t know other kids who’d lost a parent. It was a silent grief.

I was the other parent at home. I was the mom, while our mother took on the role of dad. I didn’t hang out after school or go to parties much, because I had siblings to take care of, dinners to think about, a house to clean. I didn’t get a lot of things with kids my age, so I often felt myself watching the sidelines.  I wasn’t that shy kid who no one noticed, I guess I just was afraid to be noticed for the wrong reasons… and it held me back from a lot of fun and h.s. rituals that I could have been experiencing with my classmates.  When my mom (along with my siblings) announced, during my Jr year, that she was moving to Florida I knew it was my chance to break out. So I stayed.

This in itself changed my entire life and probably saved it… on so many levels… but it also marked my life as that much more different than my classmates’. I didn’t know anyone else who was living without their family, paying rent and trying to make ends meet. I lived with a family who ran a local Montessori school for a while, and then ended up with my boy friend’s family (he’d gone off to college by my sr. year) and later spent a summer with my grandmother, one town over. It was far outside the norms of most of my friends and I felt isolated and stressed, trying to make it all fit and look normal.  I wore the same preppy sweaters and chinos, but I was always worried that the awkward differences would show through.  I’ve told my kids, applying to college was a total crap shoot (no on in my family had ever gone and no one was around to help me) and I took buses for interviews and made my own way. Again, learned a lot and it made me a much more independent, strong person… but tough at 17, when classmates were doing those things with their parents.

So, when I left, again, I left. There were a few close friends that I stayed in touch with, and there have a been a few that I reconnected with over the years. Facebook and email has made all of that so much easier. But when the reunion page started and one or two friends urged me to come, I didn’t really think it all through. I said yes and then, I guess I figured maybe I’d go and maybe I wouldn’t.  As the posts multiplied, I began to have some doubts. As groups I had not been a part of recounted the many parties I’d missed or the myriad of adventures I’d not experienced then, I felt increasingly weird. It was like stepping right back in to that period of time and struggling with all the old insecurities and strange feelings, that I thought I’d purged in the years since. Freaked me out for a little while.

The years seemed to suddenly jump up and chide me when I looked in the mirror or read the jokes from other classmates about spanks and botox. Hell, the lines are multiplying by the week it seems and I am 30 lbs bigger than the skinny girl who graduated in 1981, thinking she still could be thinner.  Like anyone, I still have some insecurities, but there’s nothing like a reunion to bring a whole pile more to the surface. Seeing all those pictures of my classmates from our graduations parties, homecoming, parties and events and class photos made all those years seem fresh again. I can’t imagine seeing some of these people in their actual (going on 50) bodies and faces, any more than I can believe what greets me in the mirror. The guy I had a crush on looks nothing like that boy, and he could say the same of me and hit it that nail square on the head.

Fine, fine… yea I can hear the groans. I would agree, I like me a whole lot better now than I did then. I look ok in most of my wrinkles and while I would certainly like to lose some of those pounds, I’m not willing to give up Cool coffee creams, hot tamales, haggen daz ice cream ( the list is a blog in itself), vodka tonics,  or much of anything else to have that figure again.  I like who I’ve become, most days, and I get the things I didn’t get then…

BUT, as the date speeds up on me, and I try to imagine meeting all these strangers, who I once knew and who filled my daily life with drama, color, fun and pathos, I feel a bit like I did when I’d get dressed for a dance back then and just hope that ….. noticed me, or asked me to dance. When I hoped that ….. would hang out next to me and not desert me to hang out with ….. when I hoped that I didn’t look like a dork or make a stupid mistake. I would love to walk in to a plastic surgeon’s office and hide all the evidence that life has gone on and wreaked havoc with the structure of my face and contours of my body. I don’t want any discomfort or bad outcomes. I want a magic wand that would fix it all, but let me maintain the virtues I used to hold dear: just age gracefully and be happy with what you have. (I always said that, not sure if I ever got it down… but, damn!  I said it)

This week I’ll fly back east and visit a town that is now filled with ghosts. My grandmother died years ago from Huntingtons Disease, my mother is fading away now (and never returned after moving to Florida),  my family is all spread out, my two besties from that time period are not coming and have moved away (and their parents, who became my surrogates, are gone too), and I really know very few people. I have forged new friendships with some of my classmates, as we’ve chatted about the reunion and old times. That is something that is fun to think about: new high school friends, who I didn’t get the chance or take the time to know then. Seeing the friends who I have maintained some contact with brings a warm fuzzy.

But as some of my friends here can attest to (’cause some of you have been pulling me back from the ledge for months!) it will be nice when I am no longer anticipating this event (cue the clack clack clack of roller coaster car going up the first hill), second guessing my looks, my success, my ability to chug a beer, no longer looking up plastic surgery procedures and I can just hold tight to the bar (cue the zipping car speeding in to the first turn), disembark on the other end, and say: again, again!

Been there? Done that?  If you’ve been to your reunion and can share some insights, share a comment.  If you liked this post, please hit the Like button below, or pass it on, with Share button.

Posted in Daily Observations, Humor, Mothers, Musings, Women's issues | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

A fresh, fresh glow.

Posted on July 31, 2011 by Dawn Quyle Landau

When Sunset Magazine listed the Bellingham Farmer’s Market as the number ONE Market “across the West,” it was no surprise to me… though I admit to being tickled. Yes, tickled. I LOVE this market and it was a real thrill to see it place so prominently in a well respected and very successful magazine.  The BFM deserves the spotlight!

It’s pretty hard to pass up the amazing produce that arrives each week (plus Wednesday in Fairhaven) but even when I don’t have a burning need for the best fresh raspberries in this country (ok, when don’t I?) or amazing greens, new plants for my garden, peaches so divine they burst in your hands, even when I don’t really need any of those things… I love being at the market. Just being in and amongst the swarms of Hamsters that come each week, with the colors and smells, lifts my spirits, whether they need lifting or not. A sweet contentment falls over me and seeps in, as I drift between the isles of good stuff.

On a sunny day, it is damned near as close to a religious experience for me as anything I can think of … no offense to anyone who sees religion differently. Yesterday, was such a day. Bright sunshine and a serious need for fresh stuff. We had the pleasure of taking friends, new to Bellingham, for their first trip to the Market. The sun was spectacular and the market was packed. We made a beeline for my absolutely favorite lunch booth, 22 Greens. Jessie (a yoga friend), her husband Aaron and her wonderful staff have made salads something that this carnivore craves all week. Having been away for three Saturdays, I could barely wait. Why is there no picture? I was eating it before I even made it to the table! They just make magic out of fresh greens, quinoa, braised beans, flower petals and numerous other tastes that just meld together into perfection.


Seeing all the kids with their booths; the various performers (you’ve got to love 10 yr old jugglers and 7 yr old violinists); blender smoothies powered by kids and playful adults on bicycles; the quirky (two dogs in an old VW bug, “listening to” Zeppelin) and the simply beautiful; all the wonderful artists– it is pure eye candy, sensory sugar. Watching my sweet girl eat her all natural popsicle until she and her dress were one gooey mess, was just icing.  The only thing I wish they’d add are benches. If there were benches right in the middle of each row, I would simply plop myself down and people watch for hours. It fills me up, until next Saturday.

I ended this already perfect day with a night paddle in Bellingham Bay with the BBC (the other BBC), to experience the bioluminescence , best seen at a new moon, so a rare and special treat.  The water was calm, the air still warm and a friend and I paddled out with the group, for  an adventure. The sparkle and glow from the moving sea organisms was pure magic. I just wanted to drag my hand through the warm water all night, watching the creatures fly off my fingers, exploding like small fireworks in the water–a scene right out of Avatar (you can mute the Katy Perry music but this has the glow), the high seas version. Our paddles left trails of shimmery glow and as fish occasionally swam beneath us, their bodies became glowing torpedoes, the bioluminescent organisms attaching to their scales. To be out on the water, in a kayak, from 9-12 was amazing. We laughed and bumped around with others in our group: International Man of Mystery (a S.African), Studmuffin (who I finally met in person), Studmuffinette, and Southern girls.  I wanted to stay out longer, even though it was way past our bed times!  I came home salty and wet, and buzzing with joy.

If I haven’t said it before (and of course that’s sarcastic), Bellingham is:  the bees knees, THE best, the end of the rainbow, all the descriptors that mean glorious, and today was a pinch me am I dreaming day.

NOTE:  All pictures were taken with the knowledge of those shown. Only the dog’s owner suggested that payment might be in order, but no fees were paid. The pups seemed to like the attention, and my popsicle sweetiel is a ham in front of  a camera. If you liked this post, please hit the Like button below, or pass it on, with Share button.

Posted in Beautiful places, Daily Observations, Humor, Musings, My world, Natural beauty | Tagged , , , , , | 3 Comments

Mohawk Chick Kills Old Man on a Bike, and other myths that live in my head…

Posted on July 28, 2011 by Dawn Quyle Landau

Yesterday Middle Man called me to let me know that “Old Guy on a Bike” is in fact alive. I had told Middle Man that I hadn’t seen “Old Guy” in months, and figured he had probably died, or was now home bound. While Middle Man would deny this, I believe we’ve both been hopefully watching for him to re-appear.  If you’re not from Bellingham, you probably have no idea what I’m talking about, and even if you are… you might be scratching your head.  For all intents and purposes, most of this has been played out in my head.

Over the course of the ten years we’ve lived in this amazing place, one of the things I’ve spent some time doing is noticing and naming the plethora of “colorful characters” that live here. No doubt, The Ham as many call it, is home to no shortage of “hippies”– that goes without saying (except perhaps here) and is just a loosely veiled reference to more liberal slantings in general. But, it is filled with people I see and have seen for ages, who give this town tons of color and an edge, that I for one love.

So, “Old Guy on a Bike,” is a very old gentleman (we’ve long guessed that he must be in his seventies or even eighties) who routinely rides his big beach bike up and down Fairhaven Parkway. He has always worn an overly large helmut, usually a beige jacket and has a big orange, caution flag attached by a long pole (like the ones we used on our bike carrier, when we wanted people to know “kids are on board”).  I’ve seen this elderly man ride by too many times to count… which is part of what matters in adding characters to my internal note book: they must be “regulars.” I’ve never seen him go in or out of a store, never seen him coming from one of the two senior housing complexes that are located on the Parkway; he is always just riding along the sidewalk, bent over his handle bars, flag warning pedestrians to jump the hell out of the way. No doubt, he is not allowed to drive a car, but I have long been amused to see him pedal his way along my route.

Let me introduce you to the list:

“Environmental Bike Lady”- she rides around on her bike, usually with a HUGE Earth flag and often some big political sign as well, and never wears a helmet.

“(Edgy) Mohawk (recumbent) Bike Chick”- if she weren’t on a recumbent bike, this chick would scare the shit out of me… Ok, she still makes me think twice about passing her. She sports a bright pink mohawk, a true MOHAWK and is seriously tough looking– except for the recumbent bike, which I clearly have pre-conceived prejudices against (the bike, not the chick).  Briefly, if truth be told, I even imagined that maybe “Old Guy on a Bike” had crossed “Mohawk Chick” and she ran him down… hence his disappearance.

“Running Man”- sometimes we call him Forest Gump: he is ALWAYS running, has neatly kept blond beard and hair (He’s got great taste and gets his hair done at Looking Glass Salon, in town), always wears a neat Nike outfit, new sneakers and seems to range this entire town from Fairhaven to Sunset! For a long time, years, I only saw him running… then I actually saw him come in for a hair cut, saw him outside a coffee shop once, and now I actually know his name, because people I know, know him.  Despite myths about his homeless-millionaire status, I think he’s really just a good guy, a little lost and running ’til he figures it out… something I can really relate to right now.

“Skate Boarder Kid” lives near me, graduated hs a few years ago and for the longest time (four years) could be seen skate boarding down Hawthorn nearly EVERY day. Lately he has been on a bike twice (I nearly pulled over to ask!) and I have hypothesized that he’s gotten a job, that require he cut his long curly locks and dress up a little.  Pricipessa knows who he is, but I’ve created an entire alter history for him, and refuse to hear otherwise.

“Crosswalk boy”- he  is almost always at one of 2 intersections, pushing the cross button and waiting, in his dark green or bright red jackets. I am aware that he has some “challenges”, but I have long admired his focus and determination navigating his territory. He never crosses against the light.

Just to be clear, these are only a few of the regulars I’ve “followed” for several years now.  The ones that I see and see again, and have created background stories for; I look for these individuals in my comings and goings. It is unsettling when the patterns change, or I lose touch with them, as they color and nuance the world I live in. Actually, the novel I’m working on started with a character I saw around town. I began to wonder what would happen if our worlds collided, and the story went from there… when it sells millions and I’m on my book tour, you can ask me about this.

When I hadn’t see “Old Man on a Bike” for many, many months, I really did worry that something bad had happened to him. It was a strange realization that he might have died, or gone into a nursing home, and I really have no idea who he (really) is.  His disappearance was a reminder that he does have this life outside my car windows and I have no way of really being sure when that life changes… other than the striking absence of his presence in my routines. I’d mentioned this to Middle Man (who is alternately amused and mocking of my character observations) and when he saw Old Man again, he promptly called me to let me know that he is in fact alive. Hmm, broken hip (from his collision with “Mohawk Chick”) kept him in for a while? I’m beginning to work out the details…

Once, I stopped to help one of the characters that I’d been noticing for some time. I had seen this bearded guy shuffling along in his wheel chair, up and down the Parkway (this is the area I see most of my characters). It was clear that he struggled with the wheelchair, and tried to use his feet to propel himself forward. One day I was driving Middle Man to something and we passed this guy trying to cross at one of the cul de sacs that are along the Parkway, but apparently stuck. When I suggested that maybe we should stop and see if he needed help, Middle Man was mortified. He thought this would be very intrusive and out of line, and urged me to just keep going and not make a fool of myself. He was in middle school then, and my making a fool of myself was just starting to take a toll (I think we’ve long since passed that thresh hold)

An hour later, when we came back, he seemed to be stuck in the same place and looked tired and very upset. I started to pass by again, but felt terrible and despite Middle Man’s pleas to not make a big deal, or embarrass this guy, I pulled over and went over to introduce myself.  Larry was really grateful for the help.  “The wheel chair was pretty new, so (he) wasn’t really used to it yet,” he explained.  A wheel had gotten stuck in a pot hole and his hands were sore and he was exhausted, from trying to get out. He was trying to get to Fairhaven, but was only half way there and had been stuck for nearly an hour. He told me that he didn’t have the energy to get the rest of the way, so maybe he’d just go back to the Assisted Living facility. I pushed him the rest of the way to Fairhaven and he told Middle Man and I about himself and about how relieved he was to have some help. It was a great “learning moment” for Middle Man and brought one of my mysterious characters into the real world, for me. When I started giving presentations at the out-patient Adult Day Care program a few years ago, Larry was in the front row and told everyone we’d been friends for years. I love seeing him there and we always re-hash the details of how we met.

The obvious beauty of the place I live is the islands, water and mountains that surrounds us. On a sunny day, you’d be hard pressed to find anyone around here who wouldn’t tell you that we live in one of the most beautiful places in the world. It actually shimmers. I love the culture, the restaurants, the wild places that still exist between the various neighborhoods and all around us. I love the people. Hands down I’ve found some of the most rewarding and meaningful friendships in this town, and good people abound. But, the nameless regulars that live here with me, the people I see day to day but only know in my head, truly add color and intrigue… and that adds some rainbow hues that just make the shimmer sparkle a little brighter.

PLEASE NOTE: If you know any of these people, no offense is intended by any of my observations. The characters mentioned here are people I’ve observed over a long time, and keep track of because they interest me and have some quality that I admire. In no way are any observations intended to be insensitive or critical. If you liked this post, please hit the Like button below, or pass it on, with Share button.

Posted in Daily Observations, Honest observations on many things, Humor, Musings, My world, Nature | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Is it just me, or does this weather make me look bitchy?

Posted on July 26, 2011 by Dawn Quyle Landau

WARNING: Unsafe conditions for my offspring or spouse. Best to seek other reading material.

Ok, so we live in the Pacific NW, and yes, I would much rather have this totally erratic; gray for two days; blustery at times (blowing our umbrella over and sending deck items flying); freezing (ok, 54 this morning) then warm (um, 67), classic PNW weather, over the blistering hot temps that much of our family back East is experiencing right now. Most of the year, I would be much happier with our fairly benign weather, versus the extreme winters and summers of my childhood, outside of Boston.  However, having had gorgeous sunny days and wide blue skies for three weeks, this is a bit harder to take right now. Hell, having had total freedom for two of those weeks, pretty much anything else is a bit harder to take.

But there is a silver lining:  virtually everyone I run in to (even our mailman today) starts a conversation with some version of  “so, it would be nice if summer finally comes…” and then adds a couple of cranky to down right miserable examples of why they are sick to death of this weather.  And this wide spread crabbiness is for now, my cover. My bitchy re-entry in to family life: the mind numbing minutia of “what’s for dinner”, whether laundry is done, and various other domestic high points, can hide itself in the weather for a little while so I can find my game face again. My current gray blends with PNW gray.  The insidious disgust I feel about certain post-teen, pre-adult attitudes and behaviors and the ever deepening “number one” (clearly moving toward the Botox demanding “ll”) that has taken root between my eyes can, for a while, be camouflaged in the “yea this weather is a real bummer” mood that permeates right now.

Sunday was truly gorgeous here, so I had to really keep it in check. And, actually it was a nice day all around. But cranky, mean, nasty bickering and snarky responses to requests to pick up clothes, shoes, dirty dishes, food scraps, wet towels, etcetera etcetera etcetera… have dominated for the past 48 hours and despite some reserves from “Oh my God it is so wonderful to be away, to not hear any voices, to do whatever I want”… it’s a hard mind set to hold on to, under the previously described conditions.

So, before some of you start writing to me about digging deep and finding that happy spot, that lives in me despite my location, or how whiny I might sound… please don’t. Believe me, I’m entitled to some cranky, ok call it bitchy, reactions to the reintroduction of real life. If you were listening to the ridiculous arguments between siblings, who are trying to figure out how much they do or do not like each other right now– totally unaware that they will likely be very close one day and spend the second half of their lives agreeing on mom’s eccentricities and short comings… (they agree now, but it gets lost in the battle over who has to clean the dishes or who used more gas in their shared car) you would have some empathy and allow me this rant.

I miss the solitude of clear moving water and empty hotel rooms. I miss the free, open road ahead of me and no one telling me how or where to go.  And I know that I am barely entitled to true frustration yet… yes, I do still have some free fall glow to lasso my hopes on to. But, it is hard to hang on to the rope at points, as insults are flung and I try to ignore breakfast dishes, at 2 pm.  Sorry, but these things get to me. I am weak. I am selfish: I want things my way in terms of how the house is kept and how things run. I want some command over my domain… and right now, that does not seem to be the case. It worked when they were younger and being grounded or losing privileges still held some weight, but, at this point, the reality is that those things really don’t work so well anymore. Again: not quite teens, not yet adults… what is that?

Sunday, the sunny day (and perhaps there is a direct correlation to weather and general household moods?), Principessa and I were cuddling in my bed. There for all of you who think I’m just an all-negative all-the-time gal, there’s your dose of sweet stuff. And, it was sweeeet stuff. We were cuddling and chatting and laughing; it was so nice. We were going to the lake and I was debating the whole 2 piece thing again and then talking about other stuff, when Principessa says: “So, mid-life crisis, you think mom?”  “What! No, not a mid-life crisis… I think of it as a gradual awakening that ended in a brick wall moment.” “Well, mom, let’s add this up: ‘do I look ok in this bikini?’   (NOT a bikini for the RECORD) ‘Oh, I can’t wait to party and hang out w/my old high school friends,’ (30th reunion in 2 wks), and ‘gee, I think I’ll jump in my car and run away from home’… she said all of this in a playfully mocking imitation of me. She had me with the humor and we both laughed for a while. I resisted the fleeting urge to clarify her interpretations with some reality checks that might dim her view of mothering and marriage… she can discover her own reality one day, and I hope only good stuff for her in that department.

It was a sweet moment, that was followed by a trip to Lake Padden and for a while, another slice of summer heaven, as we managed to take over one of the much coveted docks, with only 2 other people… who clearly wanted to pretend we were not there either.  When a single mother (meaning not with anyone else) arrived a while later, with 5 incredibly loud and annoying (as in splashing us, stepping on the other couples towels and books, yelling, bumping us all) boys and a young girl… I suggested we talk loudly about waxing or child birth to drive them away, but in the end, we all decided to yield to the louder group.  The other couple left first, with flustered expressions and agitated grabbing of towels. We tried to hold our ground as long as possible, I even threw out the word Brazillian, to test the waters, but we were sunk already. This mom was not going to set any limits at all and I would only prove Pricipessa right (mid-life theories) if I snapped all together and threw her truly obnoxious youngest one off the dock, or splashed her as she texted friends and ignored all of our discomfort. The time we had before they arrived:  sheer summer bliss and we left with mild sun burns and good moods intact overall.

Frankly, it is really hard to believe that was only two days ago, because the moods have been so much darker since… as have been the skies. Pricipessa started an office job which she hates, and somewhat justifiably– but mostly I think, as she complains and goes on about how horrible it is, while being incredibly cranky to the rest of us: grow up. We all worked lousy jobs to pay for school or living away from home. In my case, 2 jobs and a roach infested apartment in Somerville to pay tuition and everything else (and I think I did in fact walk 10 miles to school in the driving snow as well…). Yes, it sucks, but it’s hard to totally buy the ‘it’s the worst job in the world’ attitude, when I’ve seen not to mention worked, lots worse.  And now that Middle Man has lost the car for the summer (do to activities that also contribute to my soured mood) and Little Man is back on tech and battling every request to do pretty much anything else… Well, there:  now you can all see my general bitchy mindset in all its bright colors.

However, I just don’t buy that I’m out here on my own little nasty bitch island. I’ve heard too many other complaints from other moms who have kids spending too much time on electronics, but don’t have better options; mom’s tired of the sibling arguments and chores that don’t get done; with lots of people claiming the weather is the entire source of their crankies… AND, yes, I do know there are some really happy families who are loving all this time together and ruing the day that August ends and school starts again. I see you; I think it’s great. It just doesn’t seem to work in our house. Mama geyser has raised some baby geysers you could postulate.

I KNOW that I will miss my kids when they go back to school. I always do. However, I’m also coming to the realization that once the nest starts emptying, it just feels weird when the birds come back. It’s not just the accumulation of bird doo doo that I referred to in that first post; it’s the adjustments that are required by all of us. The returning birds feel their own resentment about following old rules and being asked to do things that they find stupid (who cares if dishes are in the sink? Why do you need things put there instead of here? etc) and their newly established independence, still a bit fragile if truth be told, is challenged each time we say “when will you be home?” or demand that things be done our way.  However, my neatly ordered world, the lovely renovations I did to the nest and the order of the nest, when said birds flew away is also precariously challenged here. And the older I get, the less able I am bend.

So, for a little while… I’ll use the weather to camouflage the other gripes I’m working against.  If I say, “man, when the hell is summer going to arrive?” you’ll know what I really mean. And if I seem bitchy, just blame it on the gray clouds.

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Splat!

Posted on July 24, 2011 by Dawn Quyle Landau

Today, I arrived home after 3 full weeks away, two of them spent soloing or free falling.  I can’t say that re-entry hasbeen smooth… actually there’s not much I can say about re-entry just yet, as I’m still trying to figure it out and not get back in the car and leave again.

What really struck me as I watched my adventure recede in my side view mirror, Hubby having taken over the driving, was that an awful lot of bugs gave their lives for me to have this adventure.  Each time one went splat on my windshield, I couldn’t help but feel a sympathetic jolt as I began to envision the reality that I was speeding towards.  I felt a bit more anxious as we got closer and closer.  How had Principessa and Middle Man managed the house and their time without us; would things be neat and ready for our arrival (we’d certainly given several hints) and wondering what it would be like just to be home again? While Little Man kept checking the navigation to see our ETA and announcing enthusiastically: “Three more hours ’til we’re finally home!”, admittedly, my emotions were taking a distinctly different route.

Spat! The body count seemed to mark our progress, as my solemn anticipation mounted. The views were beautiful, as the countryside changed from Wyoming, to Montana, to Idaho and finally to Washington again.  The magnificent Tetons, led to thermal landscapes, which gradually morphed in to sage deserts with distant mountains, and dry, rocky mesas, then to golden wheat fields in Eastern Washington and back to the tall, lush forests of my home. The views zipped past and my mind raced ahead and back… as our windshield became increasingly bloodied. No amount of windshield fluid could keep the window clear, a reflection of my thoughts.

We stopped in the very odd town of Wallace, Idaho which only made my thoughts scatter in in wider circles. It is an “historic town” and I’ve never seen a place so determined to stay in the past. Every single shop, business and building was an antique, with the interior and exteriors determined to take us all back to a gentler time when Tinker Toys were the toy of choice; I hoped the “perfect” teacher in Romper Room would “see me” in her magic mirror; Aunt Bea and Mayberry felt real; candy cigarettes were cool; Coke came in glass bottles, that fit smoothly in your hand; and electronics cost a quarter and involved a ball zipping across a platform, while you hit paddles and waited for the dings and lights.

Being in NW Idaho, there was a fair share of more dead animals and hunting, mining and other Pioneer values. Stuffed snakes, skulls and wildlife, frozen before us.  It was like stepping back in time and I clearly remembered walking all the way to Ronnie Shones’ corner store, to buy my mother her Coke and Marlboros. At home, I pretended I smoked, like her, a candy Luky Strike elegantly balanced in my hands.

I thought of the disdain I felt when Principessa brought home fake cigarettes one Halloween… While the same memory from my own childhood is filled with humor and the desire to be like the adults around me, we immediately took hers away, and told her how cigarettes kill.  Would it have been so bad if I had let her play “smoker” for a while?  At the time, the importance of letting her know how truly awful smoking is, seemed critical. Letting her know that we weren’t people who smoke, might be totally undermined by a candy facsimile.  As I looked at the candies displayed happily on the shelf of one more “old time store”, I felt silly for making such a big deal then.  All of these items from my childhood were suddenly magical items to share with Little Man, and watch his face light up at the simplicity and delight of a beating the pinball wizard. I didn’t buy him candy cigarettes, but I came close.

The kitsch and the mundane made my heart skip a beat and I smiled and reverently pointed out all the hallmarks of my childhood, on display and for sale. I challenged Little Man to a game of Pac-Man, a game I played well in college (though Centipede was MINE), and he beat me. Though it was all a nostalgic escape for me, he seemed to appreciate the experience too. (click on individual photos, to enlarge)

As we crossed the Columbia River Gorge and the terrain turned decidedly more like home: tall pines filling the landscape and things becoming lusher and greener, I fell more silent. Leaving behind the wild places that so filled me for these past two weeks, I found it hard to really embrace the homecoming ahead.

I know, I sound like a terrible mother. I know I should have been excited to finally be home again, see my kids, jump back in to the role that has defined me for twenty-one years now… but I just couldn’t muster the enthusiasm. The sheer familiarity of my exit, then the parkway, and then my street seemed to dull my emotions, not lift them.

The messy kitchen (which Middle Man insists was very clean, from his point of view) and evidence of things not quite as they should be, was a final slap of cold water. Home! I tried to bite my tongue; I tried not to point out how messy the pantry had become; or the laundry strewn all over the laundry room floor; I quietly watered the plants that drooped or had died from not being watered, and I tried to not to complain.  I really did try. I know my face showed the disappointment and I could see Middle Man take it in: pissy mom is back, always wanting it a little more this, a little more that. I really wanted to be different, but re-entry can be a bitch… for everyone involved I’m sure he might tell you.

I took one look in the magnified mirror in my bathroom and I promptly called the local Aveda shop, Blessings. “Please tell me you have an opening for a lip and eye brow wax!” I whined. “When can you be here?” “Less than five minutes.” As I type, my lip is still stinging from the yank and pull of three weeks worth of middle aged mustache and a full set of eyebrows, that I didn’t know could grow there… but it made getting dinner out (there was no way I could make my way ’round the kitchen yet), feel a lot more civilized.

Yep, I’m back in civilization and I’ve got to get a grip. I’ve got to wake up tomorrow and happily put things back where I like them and be grateful that our dog Luke is well cared for, nothing is damaged and all the things that are “not right” will be fixed with time. For tonight, I feel an awful lot like one of the many bugs who ended up on my windshield: Splat!

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End of a mothering era: Farewell Harry

Posted on July 20, 2011 by Dawn Quyle Landau

SPOILER:  If you haven’t seen the final Harry Potter movie, and plan to, you may want to skip this post

Last night I went to see the final installment in the Harry Potter series, by JK Rowling:  Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows II.  I had hoped to see it with our entire family, but there was no way Pricipessa and Middle Man were going to wait another week for Hubby, Little Man and I to get back from our Yellowstone, Wild West adventure. I can’t blame them; it was hard for me to wait for Little Man to come out of the woods. However, I could not imagine seeing this movie with anyone other than at least one of my children. Like it or not, this movie heralds the end of an era with my children, and a bittersweet end to what has been a magical time as a parent (pun intended folks).

The first Harry Potter book came out when my Middle Man was in 1st grade, at the Valley School in Flint, MI. The series was just taking off at the time and his teacher, Ms. Linda, agreed to let me come in and read the book aloud to the class. JK Rowling had not yet become one of the richest women in the world, and none of us knew how to pronounce Hermione. That, in fact, was a source of much debate amongst Middle Man’s classmates. For the record, I had that one wrong. The kids loved it instantly and I found myself sucked in to this new series for children as well… the twist would come around book three, when JK Rowling gave an interview in which she let readers know that the series was not, in fact, intended for children, but had been written for teens, and would become increasingly “dark” and frightening.

The first four books came out in 1997, 1998, 1999, and 2000. Little Man was only a year old when that first book came out and my other two children were only seven and five. My children, have quite literally grown up with Harry Potter and the books and movies have been something we have shared all along. By the time I read that first book the second had just been released. So, when we finished the first, Middle Man’s class and I passionately jumped in to book two, finishing it the last day of school that year. Snow days be damned, we would all have extended the school year to finish that book! I can’t deny that I was as enthusiastic as the kids were and we all agree to not read them outside of our little group, or, when that became unbearable, NO ONE could give anything away, as we read them together. Though I have read aloud in Little Man’s class every year since kindergarten, the Harry Potter books were the start of that tradition, as I’d only read picture books and On the Day You Were Born (each year on each child’s birthday, when I brought in what was then an ok option of homemade cupcakes or cake) up until then.

Book three proved more of a challenge. It was clear by then that the books were taking a decidedly darker turn and Ms. Rowling had by then come out with her warning. Middle Man was in 2nd grade (which sounds like babies to me now!) and their small group  (the kids were together each year) was clambering for more. However, we needed to get parental permission for each child, in order to continue. Permission granted, we plowed through that book and like millions of others (for the books had become a sensation by then), we waited anxiously for the new millennium, and more importantly: book four.

In 2001 we moved to Bellingham, WA and The Hobbit was the book to read in Middle Man’s 4th grade class. The Harry Potter series became instead something that Pricipessa, Middle Man and I waited for each year, and read at home.  Our family often bought 2 copies of the new releases, as we were all unwilling to share or wait. A gazillionaire by then, JK Rowlings had also given herself a break and was releasing her books every 2 years, something that seemed unbearable at times. However, 2001 was the year the first movie made it’s International debut, and we now had another Potter fix to wait for. We were there as soon as it opened, the whole family: despite any concerns we had about the appropriateness for our then 5 yr old Little Man.

In Bellingham, we had the added thrill of waiting outside our fabulous local bookstore, Village Books, for the midnight releases of the books. Kids would come dressed in wizarding get-ups and wait for ages, to get the freshly pressed books. If you got on a plane, a full third of the passengers seemed to be reading the same Harry Potter book. There were no kindles, and as you walked down the isle (vacation read in hand) you smiled knowingly, part of a tribe.

When that first book, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, came out, Pricipessa was the same age as the enchanting main character and his best friends.  She has grown up alongside them, and I imagine has had her fantasies about having secret powers (oh to turn her mother in to a piggy at times, or be invisible!) and she read each book before the rest of us could open the covers. Reading the final book in 2007, was inconceivable at the time for all of us… waiting for the final movies has helped delay the inevitable.

These books and movies have truly aged with our family, brought magic to our lives. So this wont be a shock (if you know me or have read any of the other posts): I cried more than once while watching the final movie. I missed my children… I missed when they were little and the books and movies carried us away. I missed the sweet little people they were when we started this journey together. I grabbed Little Man’s hand in excitement as the movie took us on our final journey and the fantastic battle between good and evil played itself out. As all of the characters we’ve loved for so many years finished their journeys and we followed along, one last time. I cried openly when Harry’s mother says:  “We have never left you”… the child in me believing that this is true for us all and that my father (who was killed when I was 10) is still there.  I believe the beloved Dumbledore when he tells Harry: “Of course it’s all happening in your head, but that doesn’t  mean it isn’t real.”

I felt my other two children, now nearly adults like Harry, Ron and Hermione, right there beside us. I called them as soon as we finished. It has been twelve years of magic, thrills and joy with Harry Potter and and my family, it is bittersweet to see it end. In my head, my kids are still little people who believe (nearly) everything I say and believe mommy can fix or do anything. While they, like Harry have grown up and moved on, just because it’s happening in my head, doesn’t mean it isn’t real… the magic will linger on for a while I think.

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Ode in photos to lots of dead animals and tourism: cowboy style

Posted on July 20, 2011 by Dawn Quyle Landau

Oh Jackson Hole, how we’ve enjoyed your unique style and offerings. Today, it was Little Man’s day to choose, so we let him lead the way. This meant we road the alpine slide (and mom, kicked ass; beat the boys by a mile!); ate at a Shogun Sushi, which his guides had told him was not to be missed (pretty darn tootin’ good); checked out the fishing supply store (where our new fly fisherman– scrap any previous sexy comments I made in previous prior posts); showed us lots of flies, and strolled around this town, that prides itself on cowboy style entertainment. Each night at 6:00, there is even an old time shoot out in the town square, with hombres and good guys, shooting the town to pieces.                                                                                                                (Right: flies, not sushi)

I took loads of pictures, with my cell phone, to pay homage to the various classic and not so classic things that the Jackson Hole visitor gets to explore. We were especially struck by the abundance of dead animals, especially in an area that prides itself on its close access to all things wild and beautiful. I guess stuffed animals help bring that point home… for those who don’t feel like going and seeing them live? No doubt this is as close as we ever want to be to a grizzly (note Little Man’s expression), but hard to swallow the wolf, just to the right of the grizzly, after my time as wolf expert inYellowstone! Note to self:  Pull in tongue, bite down hard and wander on darlin’.  

They seem to have a clear disdain for “hippies” here, as demonstrated by countless t-shirts and signs for sale, that make the point very clear, even if they mask it in humor, because so many hippies come here!  Funny fishing and hunting t-shirts, generally heavy on manly man sexual innuendo and humor are a big sales item. Politically correct doesn’t really exist, though the politics cover both sides of the fur lined fence. The classic cowboy theme is what makes this town tick, even if the coolest Ford truck I ever saw, seems to have faux rust (yep, just lookie here at the photo)… it still oozes cowboy mystique.

Culture in the form of museums and live theater, co-exists with down home values like saloons, where the entire family can mosey on up to the bar and order a cool wet one.  When all is said and done: we are all Irish on St. Patricks day and even I almost bought a cowboy hat in Jackson Hole (thank you Hubby for reminding me that I don’t really like any hat!)… because deep down, everyone wants to be a cowboy at some point, and this place just lassoes it right out of you.

NOTE:  If you click on the photos, you should get the pleasure of seeing them enlarged… so you can read all the reasons why Fishing is in fact better than a woman!

I’ll tell you one thing fer sure: at the end of the day, the sunset is pure made from nature majesty, that no one here can harness or sell. It’s free for the noticing.


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This tale ends with a stinky boy

Posted on July 19, 2011 by Dawn Quyle Landau

WARNING: not suitable for spouses or offspring.  You have been warned.

It’s hard to really express what the past couple of days has been like without potentially hurting feelings. However, as I’ve said: it’s my blog. It’s not that I wasn’t happy to see Hubby or that we haven’t had some fun these past couple of days, but this is a real adjustment. I can’t deny it: I LIKED BEING ALONE.  I liked getting up when I wanted and how I wanted: no one saying “so, let’s get going!” or “what are we going to do today/what do you want to do today?” (which, does take in to consideration what I want to do, but there is some amazing beauty in not having to negotiate or discuss those things, but rather, just doing them.) or “I don’t feel like this/that or the other thing.”  When I’m thinking, “SO?”

It has been a real adjustment to just talk with someone all day again. I can hear some of the groans now: YOU, having trouble talking?  Yes, I tell you, ME, is having trouble talking. (and yes, I’m aware of the poor grammar there.) Hubby and I took a 7 mile hike around Jenny Lake yesterday in the Grand Tetons National Park. Negotiating what to get for lunch, then when to eat it (I was hungry enough to eat wherever, Hubby needed a place with no tourists), and finally how far to hike caused all kinds of, errr, “discussions.”  This is Hubby’s term for what I often see as arguments. Not real angry arguments, but the ones that just make me ruffle a bit.

The hike was one of the most beautiful I’ve ever been on, circling the magnificent Jenny Lake, with a few detours up and around some might spectacular falls. I’ll post pictures later, as I didn’t take my cell and don’t have the ability to upload pics from my camera yet (yep, all the pics on this blog so far have been from my Droid). It wandered through fragrant, shadowy forests where we saw animals we couldn’t identify, listened to water gurgling and rushing all around us and a myriad of bird song. The trail then cut through meadow in the midst of renewal from a fire (who knows when) that has led to new saplings and a fragrant  carpet of wildflower, made all the more striking against the burnt stumps and crags.  All of this was intermittently out-grandiosed by the mind blowing vistas of the Tetons themselves. Hubby gloated throughout the day as he peered up at the monster of a rock that he had stood on only 24 hrs earlier. Despite one pretty painful blister (me… went barefoot in my hikers, despite Hubby’s warnings… as I usually do), it was a spectacular hike.

The pitfall were the “discussions.”  No need to air the details, but suffice it to say we do not agree on a bunch of things and while I am in a particular space right now where I’d much rather drop it and move past it, Hubby needs to resolve things, “discuss” them out. After on particularly frustrating disagreement, I chose to be quiet… for a very long while. Ok, for that record: I was not being passive aggressive; I was not trying to make a point; I was NOT angry; I just was longing for the silence of the time I had spent not discussing things with people. I just wanted to walk along quietly, listening to the world around me and letting thoughts move through my grey matter. I was actually working on some of Echart Tolle’s material and just “noticing” how my body felt, what thought came and went and trying to get back in the moments I had enjoyed last week in Yellowstone, where I was just “in it”, in the moment.

Somehow, my silences have come to signal other things to my family. Though I have explained why I need to be quiet sometimes, why I need to step out of discussions that feel upsetting or unresolvable, my silence seems to trigger their fight or flight buttons. I get it. I have not, historically, been a quiet person… in the minds of friends or family. However, it is much more a part of me than most realize. I undermine my own need to be that way by stepping right in to role of comedian, loud mouth, showman, etc when I’m with people… it just happens. An old response to needing to make myself heard as a kid. It amuses some people, annoys others and makes it hard for me to be this quieter person that I sometimes really NEED to be.

Anyway… my quiet made Hubby very uncomfortable, despite reassurances that it was not any of the things noted above. He was might relieved when I found my voice again. We drove to Jackson Hole/Teton Village ski resort for dinner. On the way, we drove through the Tetons and Roosevelt reserve and got a sighting of the illusive moose, grazing in a beautiful pond, at dusk. There was one huge bull moose and a smaller female. The bull just ignored the people who pulled over to watch, the female wanted some quiet time… I could feel her pain.  Dinner was amazing, seriously amazing.

Today, I woke to a giddy excitement in knowing that we would pick Little Man up at the airport at 9:30 AM.  All yesterday and last night, I knew the group had arrived back in Jackson Hole (or would), following a day of white water rafting and a banquet to celebrate the end of their journey. I felt that eating dinner out of town would help avoid any potential contact prior to the official pick up. I get brownie points for this in my Mother of the Year imagination. But this morning, I really started feeling the excitement of seeing my wonderful little guy again. I had such high hopes that he would be happy and excited… and tell us that this trip had really been the adventure of a lifetime.

At the airport, true to his sweet nature… he dodged (run would not be quite accurate) over to us and gave both Hubby and I big hugs and warm greetings. He introduced us to a new friend Davis (ahh, he made friends! sigh) and then we went to say goodbye to one of the two awesome guides: Will. All three looked pretty “outdoorsy” by this point, but it was just so good to see Little Man looking very at ease with his huge pack, and himself.  Suntanned, bigger than I remembered, and all smiles. What more could a mom, this mom, have hoped for?  Multiple sighs.

On the ride back to town, he regaled us with endless tales of fish caught (their group set a record of 1,000 fish caught on one day: all catch and release);  good camp food (“Dad, we don’t have to just eat lousy porridge when we backpack!”); monster mosquitoes dominated a lot of the tales; country music he hated, and a team song he loves; bear sightings; moose sightings (a real thrill in Yellostone, as there are fewer and fewer); fantastic, thrilling white-water rafting; and details about the other campers… most of whom came from way East of us. He told us that it was “THE hardest thing he’d ever done, but he felt so good having done it” and shared that he felt pretty desperate during one of the first few days, when mosquitoes had made his hands look like “small pox”; his pack was killing him; he feet hurt, and he was “at a breaking point.” Apparently, he wrote a card to us that “is pretty depressing”, and would have given anything to get the hell out. It was good to hear this story, through the filter of happy boy, who completed the trip and is glad he did!

When we got back to our very nice condo, he was amazed by all the luxury and ease. The classic response to re-entry, out of the wild. Funny to watch and something both Hubby and I have experienced and understand. It was only when he took his shoes off that we realized how wild it had been… stink, smell, noxious, unreal– none of these adjectives can express the smell of this boy’s feet.  None the less, at the risk of being the sappy mom that we all can be:  My how good it is to see his adorable face! How sweet to have him back.

One long shower AND a scrub in the sink has helped, but something tells me that this smell will take a while to go away! It represents two weeks of adventure, personal challenge and wilderness… it was hard earned and will no doubt be hard lost.  As I sat looking at his clean, sweet face (as he, of course, checked out what was on TV), feeling relieved that this journey had been all that I had hoped for him and more than I envisioned for myself, I realized that this tale ends with a new sense of wonder for both of us one  stinky boy.

The writing, however, continues.

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The joy of the saddle and Buckle Bunnies

Posted on July 17, 2011 by Dawn Quyle Landau

Alas, all good things must come to an end, and my free wheeling; do what I want, when I want; eat from my car; devil may care days have come to a distinct end.  Picked up Hubby at the Jackson Hole Airport 36 hours ago and have been re-aclimating to a bigger, busier world since.  I can’t deny, it’s been a bit of a shock to my system. It’s not that I’m not happy to see him again, but coordinating things with any one person right now,  would be hard for me. I liked my freedom; I liked being out of the bustle and chaos of towns like Jackson Hole; I liked not worrying about others’ needs/desires/preferences; I liked being selfish for a while!  While I haven’t broken this to my family yet, nor would they necessarily take me seriously anyway, but I think this may need to be an annual thing.  While Jackson Hole is a beautiful place and there’s lots that I normally enjoy doing (shopping, good food, people watching, great scenery, culture, etc), I was really starting to like those funny little cabins and motels, the totally different people that live in TINY towns in the middle of nowhere, and the solitude of being alone and not having contact with other people, unless I chose to. Here, there is a real bustle and pushing through the crowd to get to a restaurant is not fun anymore.

My last day, as it turns out, was one of the absolute highlights of the past two weeks and a perfect example of why being on my own and open to experiences can make for some of the greatest adventures. My last “free day” I woke again in Cooke City, MT. To call it small, would be a gross exaggeration. You pass through Cooke City as you come down from the Beartooth Pass/hwy and there are probably 20 building all together in town: 1/3 of those motel/cabins, 1/3 bars or restaurants,  and the other 1/3 homes or other small businesses, mostly wilderness opportunities, for the tourists who crowd the town in summers.

I had been hoping to go horse back riding this entire trip, but every ride I found was the classic tail to nose, walk through some pretty place. Not so much riding, as sitting on a moving horse and pretending to ride.  They are dominated by:  people who have never been on a horse, and sit yanking on the reigns, usually saying things like whoa and giddy up; horses that follow whichever horse is in front of them and don’t know a real command if you whipped them with it; guides who say the same things day in and day out and are sick to death of it– boring.  For someone like me, who has owned horses and loves riding, it is the last resort… or something to skip all together. Consequently, as my last day lay before me, I had given up on a going riding, which was one of the only bummers of this wild west adventure.

As it happens though, when you’re open to a last minute adventure, they often fall in your lap. I was at the little bakery in town –which has the best home made muffins and decaf lattes, and a sharp, no nonsense, multiple-pierced waitress, who I had come to really enjoy, when I got talking to a local cowboy. He told me to call a guy named Matt at Stillwater Outfitters. They run pack trips and this guy thought Matt might be willing to take me riding. When I called, the calmest, coolest voice greeted me, and informed me that they didn’t have any day rides available. I told him that I’d just been hoping to get out in this incredible country on horseback and Matt said “Well… we’re going out to scout trails today, you’re welcome to ride along, if that suits you… be about 3 hrs up in the back country.”  I jumped. However, they weren’t leaving for 2 hrs and I had to be in Jackson Hole by 9:00 to meet Hubby’s plane, a good 3.5-5 hr drive still (depending on traffic from animal sightings and weather). When I told Matt that I didn’t think that would, work, he must have heard the sincere let down in my voice… “Ok, well, when can you be ready Miss, we can go sooner I suppose.”  Lickety split, that’s how soon!

I stopped on the side of the “highway”, shimmied into my jeans (hoping no cars would come) and threw on my hikers, the closest thing I had to boots and arrived at Stillwater’s 10 minutes later.  Matt, a tall, incredibly thin cowboy, who is all legs and hat, met me as I pulled up. He was cleaning out a cabin. “Well, that was quick Dawn, we’re just about ready. JT here’s gonna take you today, ’cause he’s just been dyin to get out there. (wink)”  This was clearly an inside joke, as they both did that silent, Montana cowboy laugh. JT nodded in my direction, and we shook hands, but he said very little else and I suddenly wondered if perhaps I would have been better off spending my last morning watching wild life and trying to get a pedicure back in Jackson Hole; my toes were looking mighty gnarly, and JT was looking might disinterested. I started picturing a silent ride along some lame trail.  But, the dice were already thrown and within minutes I was watching  JT load our 2 horses in to the trailer and I was climbing up in to a truly classic cowboy “truck”.  This thing had seen more than it’s day and then some and as we pulled out of Stillwater and back up the pass,and then along a rutted, dirt road to the trail head, I wondered if we would make it at all. The dirt road, was kidney rattling and JT apologized a couple of times for the “bumps” (think punch to the back and sides, and seat belt burns), but said little else. We finally stopped at a beautiful spot, me rattled enough to already be wondering if I was in over my head, but posturing for JT and saying “I’m fine, tougher than I look,” to his silent smile and nod.

I’m calling my horse Whiskey for this entry, as I can’t for the life of me remember his name… that sounds about right though. Either way, having never really asked me if I had much riding experience, JT had informed me right away that my horse was “bullet proof.”  He was riding a horse named Pain, and I was about to learn why.  JT told me it was because he wasn’t really broke yet, and was a “Pain in the ass.” I tried reasoning that it wasn’t a very nice name, and maybe if the horse had a kinder name, he would behave, but JT assured me that “he’s truly earned his name. If he grows out of it, then someday we can say ‘shoulda seen him ten years ago.”  We weren’t 2 minutes in to the ride when Pain showed me what for and I earned my stripes with JT. A deer, which I hadn’t seen at all (something that would prove amusing over and over on our ride) jumped out of the bushes and Pain wheeled up and did a full 360 on two legs, both horses neighing shrilly, and  causing Whiskey to bolt back, rise up some and do who the hell knows what; I was too busy staying on and reigning him in… sure that I was finally being attacked by a grizzly. Later, JT would tell Matt “I knew she could ride when I saw her handle that horse … ’cause she should have been on the ground!” Gave us something to laugh about and a big old mallet to break the ice.

Our ride took us up in to the woods, crossing rushing streams and through deepening snow, and our conversation got richer as we went. I learned that JT had packed up right after graduation and just driven west, with no place in mind and no idea exactly what he’d do, other than compete in rodeos.  He’d been riding all his life and had tried bull riding in Mississippi, where he grew up.  He’s now a competitive bull rider, who has earned a full rodeo scholarship to Montana State this fall. Coming from a world where X Country, Track, Football, Basketball get you scholarships, this was a new one for me!  He has no regrets about not starting school right away, as he’s met some fine people and had lots of experiences he wouldn’t have otherwise.  He wants to travel, more than anything, and was fascinated by my travel experiences. He especially liked my stories about India with Middle Man, as he thinks that having that kind of experience must have changed my son and me.  We realized that we shared similar tough childhoods and before you know it, JT wasn’t as quiet and we were sharing some very personal life stories, riding through some of the most beautiful country I’ve seen. Crossing a stream, I teared up (you knew that was coming) and JT asked if I was ok. I told him that I was just so happy to be back in a saddle in a place this beautiful. He smiled his charming smile and said “that’s how you should feel. I never get tired of this.”

The longer we road, the more humor came out and the more comfortable we got with each other. It was magic to see the change.  He was intrigued that I had taken off on my own and got a particular kick out of my Siyona Yona story. However, he missed a few details in the telling (horses clopping and all) and I later figured out that he’d been thinking that I found some guy at the top of the pass, homeless, had picked him up and let him stay with me. “Well, you are pretty adventurous!”  he chided me, and teased me from that point on about the possibility that Siyona and I had, ahem, well… run with that.  To get him back, riding behind him, I told him “that it does get lonely on the road. But, I’m not easy JT.” I could see him smile, and then hit him: ” but hell, I didn’t just pick the guy up! I waited 24 hrs before sleeping with him,” and trotted past him, punching him in the arm as I passed. From then on, we were old friends, laughing about things and sharing more stories.  (photo is of an old homestead chimney, in the back country)

My favorite story was JT’s biggest disappointment in high school… he didn’t get to go to his prom. However, it wasn’t because (as I anticipated) he was an awkward kid and didn’t have a date.  Noooo, it was because when he and his date got to the door, he found out that 22 was the cut-off for attending; his date was 24.  JT, a true cowboy cutie, has a way with the ladies I learned. His stories were peppered with jumps out girl’s windows when their daddies came home, cowgirls at rodeos and older ladies, who he prefers– girls his age tending to be “a bit silly and expensive, two things I have no time for.”  He told me that when he got his first car, his dad told him that there was no drinking and driving, that he needed to take care of his vehicle and that if he was going to be spending time with the ladies, his car was the place to be doing it, adding, “don’t be bringing any sex in to the house son. That’s what your car’s for.”  Sex ed, cowboy style.  As I said though, Cooke is a very tiny town, an JT’s pretty excited to get to Montana State and see some girls again. Most nights in C.C. he ends up dancing with much older ladies, and while “it’s fun”, he’s been missing the company of girls his age, who have some intelligence and adventure in them.  As we road along, I could see why he does so well.  Despite a distinct baby face (“yep, I hear that a lot”), JT seemed much older and is a good looking guy:  solid and strong enough to be a top bull rider. It was a shock to learn that he’s 19, same age as my Middle Man, but worlds apart in experience and character. Very different lives, leading to very different personalities. Still, I told JT that he was always welcome to stop by and see us in WA. No doubt, Middle Man and his friends would get a kick out of JT!

I told him about the two rodeos I went to while traveling and asked him all about some of the things that had been a mystery:  how the bulls are trained to buck (hard to do, but just like breaking horses); the heavy doses of prayers and patriotism (“yep, not really my thing… no offense I hope.”– Nope, turns out JT and I have similar spiritual beliefs… we agreed that when things go the way they did when we were young, you stop believing “anyone” is really looking out for you, and make your own way); what makes a cowboy a cowboy (“real ones can ride anything, handle cattle and horses, and dress as certain way. You know you’re one when your Wranglers get tight enough!” JT’s were pretty tight.); and I finally got to ask about all those rodeo Princesses. How do they get to be Princesses and what do the cowboys think of them?  The funny smile, I would come to love on our ride, spread across JT’s face and he told me- “well, we call them Buckle Bunnies.”  This cracked me up!  An authentic cowboy term, that totally fits what I had been thinking all along!  JT explained that they’re called this because they tend to “really like cowboys”;  they wear big sparkly buckles… and, often end up notches on cowboy’s buckles. When I looked it up later, there’s whole Wikipedia entry on these girls. JT says that they’re generally “fun” (translate:  easy) girls, and that the “REALLY fun ones tend to be from Texas.”  Well, why doesn’t that surprise me?  Lordy, Texas should probably be its own country for all the character that comes out of there! Just the name Buckly Bunny had me laughing the rest of the day!

When we were finally headed back to the truck, JT told me that this had been “the most fun he’d had in a long time! He hadn’t expected it when we headed out.” Neither had I. “If I was off at school already, I would never have met an interesting lady like you.”  I am honored.  He figures this is part of the trade off to not being at school with the other kids his age:  he gets to meet all kinds of “good people, who he never would have met otherwise.” He gets to ride in these beautiful places and sleep under the stars (“the only place he really sleeps well”), and  he has had adventures that he couldn’t have at school.

For my part, I figure this is my reward for taking off and finding some adventure. I’ve met some amazing people and done some things that I haven’t done before, or, as in the case of my day with JT, rediscovered my love of riding and the reward of a day in the mountains in a saddle.  JT and I rode for 4 hrs; he told me he was happy to ride longer, as he’d had enough fun that it wouldn’t be right to charge me.  I could barely walk when we dismounted, and I’m still sore 2 days later! I was relieved when JT told me his legs were hurting too, we’d “covered a lot of miles” he stated.  Indeed.

I had to pass a lot of perfect bear shots on the way back to Jackson Hole. I got a quick, amazing, pizza at Miner’s Bar in CC before getting on the road, but then drove as quickly as possible to make Hubby’s flight. I stopped for a moment to watch the sun set behind the Tetons, as spectacular sights that demands a stop, and pulled in to the airport just as Hubby was calling to say he was getting his bags. Today, he left at 2 AM to climb the Grand Teton (a dream from his college days, when he did his first climbing course right here) and I am enjoying some quiet, in our very nice condo. It’s amazing how nicer digs illuminate all the grown in eyebrows, the ugly toenails, the grown out hair cut and dirt under your nails, that two weeks on the road masked. Things I haven’t cared about jump out at me in the mirror again and I am overwhelmed by the tourists and noise. This morning, sitting here alone, in the quiet morning, I can think back on that mountain trail, JT’s wisdom beyond his years, the joy and thrill of being in a saddle again and Buckle Bunnies… and smile.

Benefits of civilization: (freshly pedicured toes)

Notes:

I have used different initials for “JT”.  I told him I was going to write about him, and he was fine with it, but just in case, any BBs stumble upon this site, I’ll leave him anonymous… I’ve changed only the letters.

Also:  from now on, I’ll refer to my husband as “Hubby”,  daughter as “Principessa” (part of a nick name her brother’s borrowed from Life is Beautiful),  my oldest son is “Middle Man” (something I’ve called him since he was little); and  my youngest son, “Little Man.”  It’s too hard to keep up w/initials, but I prefer not to use their names. No doubt, the fact that I blog about them at all will have its consequences!

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