This Sounds like life to me dirty girl

"Knowing is not enough; we must apply. Willing is not enough; we must do." Goethe

 

In the new year I have been such a whirlwind of activity my friends are starting to stop just to "check on me." My Hon., and kids, are confused by my distracted, non-domestic (non-helpful) state. Also, with every untamed moment, I devour the words of wise and famous people who walked the line to their dream, before me, because it inspires me to fight another round.

I am vibrating like a chainsaw on idle, even while I sleep. It is exactly what this half raised WildNevadan girl-woman needed to get herself out of the fence to dance again.

I have found that when my spirits are down, it takes a calculated effort to bring myself back into balance. When I have a big or important goal in mind, I am the ponder the possibilities before I take any giant leaps of faith kind of girl.  Because from experience I know that the fall hurts like hell. Falling-- falling from grace, falling on your face, or falling short of success leads me to a place where I get less out of my life.

"Imagination is everything. It is the preview of life's cocming attractions." Albert Einstein.

Less out of life, is not good enough for me.

 

And because ideas go no where without action I decided to do. And, because I cannot get THERE, without  action, I had to get up out of that fence and dance. So, I'm here to let you know what I have been up to in such a whirl wind of activity... you know the back story.

There once was a Wild Wednesday, in which I remember I was trying to escape the dirty clothes pile that is like the song that never ends. It was, in fact the post to that brought forth Wild Wednesday. These Three Jeans and Old Biker Babes is "copied" from my old blog site and was much to do about getting out of the rut that is work and life with a little fun. My yucky work was always the laundry... 

 

Once upon a time there was a Wild Nevadan woman who hated her laundry. She would often fantasize about inventing contraptions that recycle clothing, or do all of the things in between washing and drying and folding and especially putting it away. Often she would dream she was at work at the local pharmacy, but instead of sorting pills in the glass box, she sorted laundry. She often writes on her blog about how she is haunted by the mound and believes it has babies while she is asleep at night.

A few months ago, the dream that I thought a nightmare, became an idea. I began to "do the math" on a laundry service. Crazy? Yes. Crazy-wild!

There was a lot of fantasizing in the beginning, like maybe this business could fund a freaking trip to the desert! The glass box is getting me nowhere! Or, maybe if I do enough laundry I can hire an employee and then bring my laundry to be done for free.

What a strange woman I am when I am without my desert wandering! I thought and thought on alternatives, but alas, somehow, this idea keeps with me, through summer and into fall. I was just at a total loss on what to call it.

I talked often with a good friend of mine, and one day he says, "Blondie's Laundry."

And I realized sometime later that night that I had been looking at the wrong page of my map book. The road I had thought I traveled to this point is but a memory. It was yesterday.  

If you haven't met Blondie before, you can meet her now. She was my Grammie. What a great lady. I have talked about her in this blog as many times as I have complained about my laundry. She never minded washing a few loads of laundry for me. She would turn my dirty rotten rags into fresh and tidy piles. It made me feel so good. So special. And part of a real, solid, I will do just about anything for family kind of place. And the world was less scary when I left her house because I was "presentable" again. She was a dirty girl's savior if ever there was one!

After U-hauling her washer and dryer out of her now empty house, and her washer and dryer became mine, I would often think about the times we sat on her bed and folded my sad looking lot of clothes, and she would politely bring up the rips and tears. She would mention that I was acting a little too rough for my gender.  

 

Being who I am I would argue with her. I was young. I was feisty. I would tell her, with huge pride in my heart, "Gram. I wasn't meant for sitting still. I was meant to work hard with my body. When I am done working I want to play just as hard. The best days are the ones when my clothes get gross. I guess I just like to get dirty. Maybe I am a boy."

 

She would say, "I know."

 

She never really minded that I like dirt under my feet, and finding beauty in what is weird. When I was young she probably thought it would pass. When I was in my 20s, and I burned pavement and dirt roads, sagebrush, and tires like they were Marlboro's, she probably worried a lot for me. But, she always supported my Wild Nevadan ways and was the first and most regular customer for my cards and pictures. I have learned from her that there is nothing parallel to having a relationship with somebody who recognizes who you are and finds good in those qualities, even if they do not align with their own beliefs or ideals.

 It is exactly the kind of business grandmothers should be in.  It is the type of behavior I emulate when I have mucked things up or found myself lost on the road to success.

 

One day I found myself in this hamster wheel. The one that is unfulfilled. The one that you can't even make yourself grateful for, now matter how many inspiring words you look up in a dictionary or quotes you can google. That's when you have to look at not only where you have been, and what you have learned, but what you want out of all this effort.

And I thought, "Did I just forget where I was going?"

Oh, no. better get busy!

And so I put on my work gloves. The ones my Hon. buys me. The ones he taught me how to wear and hang on for dear life with when there isn't anything but noose to hang onto, or the boat is about to capsize. And I jumped headfirst into a dream.

And my friends are stopping by to check on me because I finally managed to make laundry fun. And nobody can believe it is working, except me.

And now my wild Wednesday joke of  yesteryear, when and where nothing much changes around here in a week, and even the laundry pile looks the same, is now the biggest oxy-moron you ever met. But that's how naked stick bushes dance I guess.

So, here's the introduction to the latest and greatest thing to come from this wild mind of mine. Blondie's Laundry Service. We are Open 7 days a week, serving the Tonopah, NV area from my humble home, here on this mine dump. Service includes Free Pick up and Delivery. Please call or text us to schedule pick up. Our rates and current specials can be found on the Blondie's Laundry page, or by clicking this link. Blondie's Laundry Service.

It is going to be a whole hell of a lot more interesting for this blog than sourdough! And I am grateful again to have something to facilitate this most recent crash course in life; in how to turn laundry into a business; and pursuit of happiness. It has been more wild a ride than I can explain today. I hate to leave it out now, but soon I shall reflect on the fun and frighting things that happened this month in conjunction with the opening of this little business.

So far, it has been everything dreams are made of; every bit of rewarding, and scary, and exciting and exhausting as those words were ever meant, or how you wish to take them. Right now I must go, because there is much laundry and life to sort out.

Thanks for reading and sharing!
Loves,
HjB

Naked Stick Bush Dancing

As I write this it has been 13 days since my last blogy blog for the Dancing Tumbleweed. I have been dancing in the never nevers, far as a person can be from internet or cell phone service. I missed two wild Wednesdays, and trust me both were more wild than any I’ve had since I began celebrating them here. And, I still don’t have a plan as to how I will link up and actually post this, but I have to write now, while my household is at peace with what we have done.

 

If you want to see a naked stick bush dance, you should see me dancing now. In the shadow of Bunker hill at my grandparents place in Kingston, with a brand new life on our horizon, there is no fear in me. I am home. I am where I need to be. The rest of the clan can only thrive. And somehow, I just know it.

 

When I named the Dancing Tumblweed blog I remember saying I dance across this great state about as graceful as any naked stick bush could. You should see me dancing now. You should see the song in my heart and the light in my eyes. It is so obvious that even I am taken aback, when I study my own reflection.

 

So, what happened was this. I was on my way Tonopah for a good old fashioned range. Then, I spent a wonderful week with the boys, in and out of Tonopah, and across the Big Smoky Valley to Kingston; up to Groves lake, etc. It was as carefree a week I have had for as long as I can remember. It was wonderful and peaceful and I was crazy happy. Every call home to my man, he could hear that old Happy Heidi on the line. I even went as far to tell him, “I’m not so ready to come home just yet. I AM at home, here, and right now.”

 

The next thing I know, it is time to turn and burn and rent a Uhaul, and put out some resumes (in good 'ol T-town).

 

Less than one week later the whole dang family, and our stuff, and our critters (minus the chickens) have been relocated to my grandmother’s house at Kingston. Here we are brand new life: Yee-Haw! I call myself the wild Nevadan for reasons like these.

 

Uhauls are expensive and so is gasoline, but the naked stick bush has not been hung up in one single fence, so far! I take it as a sign of what is to come for us. Our future may be uncertain but I do not feel uncertain. And, as intense as it all was, it was still like I was dancing to that old camp song “Home means Nevada. Home means the hills, home means the sage and the pine…” Or, was the song, "She'll be coming around the mountain when she comes..."

 

I guess I was anxious to range and have found myself ranging as free as any cow, as a deer, as the jackrabbit who hops out his hole for breakfast, and sniffs the sage for what the day will bring. If the naked stick bush has ever been graceful it was just now as I pulled off this latest, and our greatest, move.

 

 It is not just adrenaline, it is happiness and peace. I am happy to be here. I am happy to be home. I am most happy to have a new adventure at hand, and a brand new life to piece together. If I was bored before, I am not anymore.There is something to be said about being around the people who I love the most, and who move me to my greatness.

 

So, here’s a welcome home to me, the dancing tumbleweed has arrived in the valley. AND, here is to knowing there are not tumbleweed wishes in my pocket today, or here, only the power of what must happen and what must be for me to keep my spirit free.

 

In closing, it will be 7-10 days before the technician contacts me and we make plans to have our internet service restored. For now, I am reporting live from a wi-fi connection at the Club House Saloon in Tonopah....no drinks for me today. It is strictly business this job hunt...So, hang in there my friends. I shall blog as wildly as blog thoughts happen as soon as I can.

Thanks for reading!

HjB

Aug. 15, 2011

What's Up Chicken Butt

Warning: If you are too sensitive to read about a dead animal, then you better take this opportunity to move along. Today's post is all about chickens, dead chickens, and chicken dinner.

 

Because I am an ass, I "lost" an entire flock of chickens last summer (around 20), besides two survivors I gave the names of Chicken and Soup.

 

So, all winter, Chicken and Soup hunkered down in the hen house with no sunshine, heat or friends and my family ate store bought eggs.

 

Of course, we had to make things right so Project Do It Again Hen, was conceived.

 

We ordered 25, non-sexed (strait run) rainbow assortment of chicks from Strombergs. They sent us a double batch. Of course, we did not think to count them until they were in the tub on the back porch. But, by then, it was impossible to get an accurate head count. They were too busy, busy.

 

The goal was to butcher the roosters, keep the hens for eggs, and then order more hens-only, when we felt confident we knew what we had gotten ourselves into.

 

Of course, we had to make room for the extra 25 chicks. Of course, that means the cost to feed them would be double.

 

And so, for the past 14 weeks we have fed and cared for a pretty ragady looking bunch of half-grown chickens. About two weeks in, their food cost went up $5 per 50 pound bag. Because we only have two adult chickens, the survivors, I only harvest 2 eggs per day.

 

I have taken to calling them my chicken-pigs.

 

My man and I, have spent considerable hours trying to figure out which ones are roosters, and get a real head count on the hens.

 

To me, when output does not equal input, the creature can be considered a pet. True, when you raise an animal from its defenseless infant stage, it is hard not to get attached, or feel like they have a personality. However, the object of the project was never forgotten. And, so, nobody has a name.

 

This past week, some of the roosters have started to crow. And, some of the white ones are larger than our two adult/survivors.

 

Also, they have gotten to be a handful of fun to care for.  A few days ago the door was left ajar (it happens!) and they ALL escaped their yard.

 

They were scattered hither and yon. I could tell my man could only see dollar bill signs running helter skelter all over. I'm sure a hawk and an owl were circling overhead.

 

No real harm done, (so I think) and all the chickens were returned to the yard (who knows we never can get a real head count on them).

 

Except, now these chicken pigs know about all these yummy bugs in the grass. And, so on Saturday, I notice a couple have escaped a small hole in the fence and are free-ranging. I open the chicken yard to shoosh them in, and out come the rest of the 40-something chicken-pigs.

 

I ran around stupid for about an hour befrore I gave up and went inside for nap time and to plan and cook dinner. Perhaps, the ones left out, will get bored and want to go in later...But, after nap, now here come the boys with a chicken, who is obviously not upset by being held by them.

 

Good gosh, what has happened? Well, something got after them while I was inside. I find a pile of feathers and at least two wet, slobbery, stunned, chickens begging to get back in the hen house. Toby was with me, so he was not the culprit. Who knows it could be a ranch dog or a coyote.

 

I spend the rest of the evening chasing after three dummies, through the tall grass and rose bushes.  Once returned to the coop I counted them to no avail. What is the point? I know Soup is gone. If she was not somebody's dinner, she is never coming back because it is too dangerous! Now we have but one egg layer.

 

So I finally think it is time to turn the chicken-pig-pets into chicken dinner and reduce the the chicken-food bill and my time spent chicky-chasing. 

 

The only problem we have is that my man has not seen a chicken butchered since sixth grade, and I cannot say that I ever remember participating in such.

 

No matter, we decide to do a practice run with two fattys before we go hell bent for Sunday on the rest of the roosters. 

 

 

Because neither one of us can remember "the first time" we butchered, we figure we always did. We think this is how our kids will be, if we make no effort to exclude them from the work at hand. 

 

They were interested for a few minutes but never made any indication they cared about what was going on.

 

We do what we have to do, and it turns out I am better at this butchering chickens stuff than my man (okay, I just like it done my way).

 

I end up taking over. I end up with my hand up a chicken butt. 

Wa-la.

Does it look as good as the chicken you get at the store? I think it looks yummy in my tummy. Needless to say, we are having chicken for dinner tonight. Thanks for reading, HjB.

June 13, 2011