Those allergic to dirt need not apply

I think life on a rural Nevada mine dump rocks.

I mean it in the most literal sense. If you grow up on a mine dump, you learn how to entertain yourself, with a rock if you must. If you stick around to make the mine dump your home, you find no shortage of rocks and dirt to move.

The experience of it can have two affects: it embodies empowerment (I moved a mountain today.), or a sense of slavery (More rocks? Seriously!).

Good thing a dirty girl has perspective.

In my short lifetime I have had my share of dirt and rock moving experiences. Oh buddy.

I would guesstimate that if you stacked all the rocks I have moved into one magnificent pile it would amount to a large mountain. And if you covered it with the poop I have moved it would be a three day hike to the top. Ha Ye.

It started with little projects like my Dad saying, “I need a hole dug right here by the time I get home from work tonight.” I would hack away at the rocky ground for what seemed like hours and never find a pipe. I would try to pry rocks out with the digging bar but then, it was way too heavy to maneuver.

And, when my Dad got home from work he would take two big scoops out of my hole and wa la, a pipe. I would pinch my eyebrows together in dismay.

“No worries girl, I only had to dig a little.” He would say.

When I was older, I remember covering a pipe that was as long as a football field with dirt. And afterwards I sat there on the ice chest and looked at that ditch with this idea that I was amazing. My Dad handed me a cold MGD and that first sip was like drinking sunshine in a bottle.

Empowered? Definitely. I have been good friends with my shovel ever since.

So, spring has sprung and the dirt and rock moving has begun. When I found my favorite spade shovel in the “man cave,” and my hands touched the wooden handle, I swear I had this little feeling of relief. It was like my hand said to the shovel, ‘Oh good, I didn’t lose you.’

Since then my little family has hauled no less than five truck-loads of cheat grass seed and old weeds to the dump; and stacked and moved rocks until every single one of us has a black spot on some finger or toe this season. It is good that none of us are allergic to dirt.

Confession: I still absolutely LOVE an ice cold MGD after a hard day mucking.

And, here’s to moving mountains and covering them with poop! I hope you have a wild Wednesday.

Loves, HjB

On baking wild cake

Life has been a blur. Just like this picture. The earth is in the sky, and who knows where or when the particles will settle. The wind is, if anything, persistent. So here we are, wild as Wednesday. And it comes once a week. You know, it gives me a star to which to aim at.

So life is a blur and time marchy march. I am hectic and nuts. Life hands me wild moments all the day through. I bull doze through like this:

The most wild thing to happen to me this week is my wee Wild-Nevadan-in-Training has turned five. This was like graduation for me.

I remember those first days and months when I handled him so carefully. I remember when rogue germs terrified my every being. And, when I was driven to pack something into every single pocket of the diaper bag, no matter how short the errand.

Five years later my heart swells. It was a major accomplishement.

But, as you know, things went wild:

The fifth birthday came with the responsibility of baking a birthday cake and 25 cupcakes... Baking being outside my realm of talents, I bulldozed into the project with good intentions. I was pretending confidence, but worry sprinkles were floating in the air. Even in the begining it seemed a recipe for disaster.

Somehow I made it through the entire baking process without a mishap. And, the cupcakes turned out pretty good even after I frosted them.

While the cake was cooling and while the boys bathed I went to check on it and found the crust layer of the top partially gone.

Hm. It looked like somebody stuck a lid to the top of the cake and pulled it off and some of the warm cake stuck. It also looked like maybe the cat had come along and skimmed off a layer. About 1/3 of the surface area had been comprimised.
At this point, I have baked three boxes of cupcakes (with filling) and frosted 25 cupcakes and baked one cake, and I am not in the mood for any more of it. After I think about it for a while I decide I will just frost the living crap out of the birthday cake and pretend nothing happened. This is when, aparently, my Karma starts rolling.

So I frost and sparsely decorate the cake before anyone sees it; and because cake decorating is also outside my realm of talents I keep it simple. With little candies it says "5." Big woopie. And, as I finish it up I feel a little guilty about this little cover up I now have going. Well, then some motherly activity calls my attention away, and again I leave the cake unsupervised and uncovered on the counter.

Brilliance. These are the moments that make me feel proud I kept my son alive for five years and I deserve some kind of graduation recognition...but I digress.

Maybe 15 minutes later I remember the cake, and rush to the kitchen to find the cat in the actual act of  licking the frosting off the cake. Seriously?

I tuck that cake in the cold oven to protect it from the cat and kids while I am at work. I am trying to figure out what to do. So, I say nothing to the rest of the family. I mean, hell, if it is the same cat and the same kitty germs I already frosted then what is it going to hurt if the cat added a few more?

Sadly, that is not even the end of my Wild Wednesday story. When my Hon gives me a ride at lunch-time that day, he says he has run into trouble with the birthday cake. He tells me that he pre-heated the oven for a pizza. And, the rolling smoke alerted him to an almost-disaster. There is terror in my eyes.

"It's not too bad." he tells me.

When I get home I find the frosting is melted down into the sides of the cake dish. The five I was so careful with, now looks like a five in one of those Internet password protection prompts. It is smushy.

Now, this is where most mothers would dump the cake that cannot go right, and go down to the store and see if they can find a replacement cake for their five-year-old son. On that particular day I was a bit too busy. I was trying to catch the dust particles loose in the atmosphere. Mostly the ones that came with the birthday. The bubbles and water guns. And, there were no less than four water guns!

You probably already know what Heathen Heidi did with that cake. But, in my defense let me say maybe it was because they acted as if they could not hear me when I tried to herd their squirting bubble party to the out of doors? Or maybe it was because they did not say anything about the smelty cake, and I was too tired from catching dust particles to consider plan B.

Yes. I did it. I let them eat a piece of the kitty germified, smelty cake, after a hearty birthday song. Just like there was nothing wrong. Ha! So you also may have guessed there is just no birthday cake pictures this year!

Bad mom? Well, lets just say while time marchy marchy and my son grew from defensless infant to a sturdy five-year-old Wild-Nevadan-in-Training, this mom has evolved too. Into what I am not always sure. But, wild is Wednesday. Happy Hump Day.

Loves,
HjB

My Window: Five Things I Love About You

"...You are the window (in) which you must see the world."

 --George Bernard Shaw 

Cory 

1. That you love to read newspapers and pay attention to world news and politics

2. That you have been to every state at least twice and that you picked me; and that you were not scared to settle down, and make US your home.

3. That you like to work and you try hard, even when you are not good at something

4. When you are sweet and charming

5. Your generosity

Colton

1. The way you say Thank You

2. Your laugh

3. The way you like to build things with Lego's

4. Your singing, and the way you dance around to music

5. The way you look like your Daddy

Clayton

1. When you say I love you Mommy

2. Your smile

3. The way you like both tools and babies

4. Your stories: the way you tell me everything that happened, and then what is going to happen, even when I cannot understand what you are saying because you are talking so fast.

5. The way you look like me

Loves,
HjB

It has fish

Old Man Winter put 20 pounds on my rump roast. I asked little of my body, except to fight off a fleet of renegade germs. Translation: This naked stick bush spent her winter chilling on some out of the way section of barb wire waiting for spring winds to blow her free.

Lucky for me I spent a good part of Friday forcing my chunky butt into physical labor. Boy, did I sweat. Meanwhile, I eagerly soaked up some of God's glorious sun rays (through two coats of SPF 50). Then, I drank about six quarts of water to flush out the toxic gunk that must have built up inside. One thing I have found, town life yields no shortage of the artificial...colors, flavors, preservatives, conversation...

After that, I felt so freaking good that I drank two beers and turned down an old dirt road. I put it into the universe I was ready to find this mysterious "nearby lake" the locals have been rumbling about. From my place, hung up in the fence, this Wild Nevadan girl-woman thought they must have gone crazy. How could I have not known such a place exists?

All I need is a reason to range off the beaten path with generalized accounts of an otherwise unknown destination.

Are you kidding? This what I live for!

How lucky we are to offer your thoughts to the universe and get back what we think?

The minute I let go of Old Man Winter, almost no effort was required for this old naked stick bush to find the lake these people speak of.

And, so I guess will continue to call it a lake, though it is only a lake by some kind of wild Nevadan standard. Perhaps it is because I found my own reason to be ready for more generalized exploration...

It has fish

Loves,

 HjB

There once was an old ironing board

Last weekend I followed my Mom out to Big Smoky Valley and Kingston to go over what to do with furniture left at Grammie's house.

I'm an expert mover so my advice is highly sought after...

Upon going over the things I shall hoard off to my own domicile we came across an old ironing board.

My Mom looks at me, and with a giggle says, "You aren't going to take the ironing board are you."

Ha ha. Less accurate observations have been made.
She was spot on.

It was a mother daughter moment in which I felt, ahh this woman really knows me.

Here's to Moms. Especially mine.
And have a wild Wednesday!
Loves, HjB.

Toby-Times

"Water! You brought me to water! You are A.W.E.S.O.M.E.!"

Last month, my Toby, my doggie friend of 13+ years was called to active duty in heaven. Boy, did I feel jipped, ripped and tripped. 

I might be recovering from the fog that settles in your head when you lose your best friend... I'm not sure. I  know it shakes me every time.

And, no amount of mental preparation can mentally prepare us for having to shred through the emotions. The word WOW, might summarize it. And it does not seem right.

Wow. And grief. What shriveled little words in this case. And what can be said about my dog's special traits? I imagined I would cronicle some of the adventures we shared. At the very least, I should have been moved to write poetry.

The fact that my Toby walked beside me through my oh-so-fun 20s envokes a sense of having been raised by him. If I didn't know my own parents I might have guessed I was raised by a distant relative of wild wolves...anyhow. The past month plus some has been rough. It was liken to a country song; one where you poor me another glass of wiskey.

If my 'ol Toby were around to witness the tears I shed, he would somehow console me.

He would somehow communicate, " Aw. Don’t worry. Lets go for a walk. Okay, no walk? Well, then my eyebrows are together in concern for this pitiful look upon your face and the wet stuff, (again). I will sit here until you are ready for more water or rocks." And, I am pretty sure Toby is the only one who could console me.

It brings to mind some of the TIMES, the Toby-Times, in which he 'said' something to me.

Do you have any idea how great this feels when I roll around on it like this? Grass is the greatest.

I was. Gone. Chasing. Jack Rabbits. Need Water. Very Tired.

I can’t leave the rock alone. It is my rock and I love it.

You’re Home! You're Home! Happy Dance time.

I will gladly get rid of any of that high fat, high calorie, yummy people-food for you.

I'm always ready for more ____.
(rocks, water, skateboarding in the back of the truck...yup anything pretty much covers it.)

and ANYTHING to make you happy.

Tacos? Order mine with no lettuce.

FYI. I do tricks for treats.

I know it looks bad. But, I didn't mean to get arrested.

So, where do I ride? When do we load up?

Walk? Did somebody say walk? That's my department. How can I be of service? The door is over here.

You knew where to find me.

To love is to live.

(and my dog taught me that)

 Loves, HjB.

A little poof dust

"I want to do something fun this weekend." I told the girls at work. Yes-sir-ree. Some Thing Fun. But what?
 

Well, the hon has been trying to coerce me to stay on pavement until we get the second ride rolling. But, I was unsupervised on Friday, so I wore the boys out with errands and headed out.

I guess the plan had been rolling around in my mind for a month or two. I just kept squishing it down but, alas the dam broke and here I go. The road was good. There were a few spots I felt like I should pick up my speed because of the corduroy.

Weather was on the way, and so at the moment, it was all shades of purple and blue and gray and, Erie still. Calm and the light just right so you know, weather is a coming.

Moisture is on the way. And none too soon. The desert is so dry that even one crack open on the window made for a poof dust vacuum. Ahem, half the desert is on and in my car now. There's no alternative to the truth on this story, once I pick up my man.

I scooted out to the turn off with a few memories bouncing around in my brain and the radio playing background. Once the boys fell asleep I had to flip a bitch at the T&G RR bed, and head back through Tonopah and to my original destination about 20 minutes behind schedule. Goldfield.

Such a sweet quiet moment. Such sweet poof dust in my review mirror.

With the kids asleep it was one of those commutes to enjoy. "Life is a Highway" was playing on the radio and I was thinking about how its funny how this wild Nevadan girl can keep a theme song. And how, no matter what I do with my life there is always 300 miles a week involved. When your life is a highway it can get pretty boring behind the wheel. But, I wasn't bored. I was feeling great. Aw, Nevada.

In Goldfield, I picked up my man but missed a comment about the car. I just knew the Efen poof dust was going to give me away. What is, is. So I scooted over to the passenger seat and put my fingers to my lips and motioned toward the sleeping kids.... Never mind the radio is blaring country radio...

He must have been in a good mood because he never said a word, until we were leaving Goldfield behind and I spit it out. "I'm surprised you didn't say anything about the poof dust."

"Well, I was trying not to."

"Well, I had this hair brained idea. I didn't do it though."I rubbed the poof dust off my camera lens with my shirt and silently kicked myself for telling on myself. Honesty is the best policy right? I'm not sure on this. I knew it is only a matter of time before we dance this dance.

"Ahem. I have a sore throat." I said after he didn't ask any questions. It's as starved for moisture as the desert. So, I go back to listening to the radio and enjoying the scenery. The light on the desert before a weather movement is almost always gorgeous. Because there was hardly any wind I imagine the storm that comes in, won't be ferocious.

We are just about to the Alkali turn off, where my hair brained idea would have brought me out to the highway when he ffinally he puts it all together and asks, "Did you come over on the dirt road? Is that why you were late?"

"No. I only went as far as the railroad bed, and there wasn't any tracks on the turn off. And I am not really too sure about what ALL-WHEEL-DRIVE means. And then I thought I might get into trouble in the sand. And then trouble with you over getting myself into trouble. So I turned around."

"ALL-wheel drive means ALL-wheels-on-pavement, in this car." He answered.

"Next vehicle we buy will have four wheel drive." I shoot back. "And a stick shift." But, I can tell he isn't really upset and that this little dance we do over my tumble dance, ideas that almost always get me into the poof dust. 

And, I'm a little happier now, because although it was but a short trip to the T&G RR bed; It was enough.

Really. A little poof dust never hurt anything. Especially me.

And, I was pretty sure moisture was on the way.

Perfect.

Loves, HjB

Ha Ye

Haw Ye. That's how we pack mules say hello.

Once upon a time when I was young it seemed so easy to identify my favorite things. What's your favorite color? Red. What's your favorite food? Pork Chops. What's your most prize possession? Red Cowboy Boots. What's your favorite animal? A Horsey. If you could be any animal on this earth, which animal would it be? A Horsey but, if that's not available, a Lioness.

But, alas, I believed in fairy tails back then too.
Aw Hell.
Ahem. I meant Ha Ye. It is a pack mule's life for me.

As the years passed I met a few tame and ferrel horses and found that image that embodies freedom in which they gallop free is as much a fairy tale as Little Red Riding Hood. As the years passed the sharpness to which I favor things has also dimmed. I like red but, not like I did when I was seven and I could have coated the world with the brightest shade of it.

Remember when you were a kid and you thought your parents were lucky to be grown ups because they could do "what ever they wanted." Whatever included things like cutting your own meat or going out to dinner while you stayed home with the fish sticks and the stranger they called a baby sitter. Or watching that show on television to which you are not old enough to watch.

So it is no secret that one of the first things we learn as an adult, is that being an adult is overrated. That, you don't really get to do whatever we want, especially once we have our own kids and/or embark on career.

Ha Ye. There's been a couple of times this week in which I wish I were my cat. She seems to embody the freedom that matched my favorite fairy tales. Gets away with mayhem like scratching apart toilet paper rolls and snacking off the counter. She takes flight and attacks her prey, which is also the Ass that feeds her and lets her in and out of shelter whenever she wants.

For my cat there is no staying between the lines or climbing the ladder. And, with envy I say to her as we pass, "Ha Ye" which is sounds like, "Hey bitch." I am just a little jeleaous.

The weather has been primo. The moon comes up and is as bright as it gets. I wanted like nothing else to take a little pokey drive off the pavement last night. Sit and listen to my heart beat and take a few deep breaths of quiet. But, I didn't.

Ha Ye. In my adulthood I come to recognize restless. It is about the boundaries, real and imagined I have set for myself. How heavy a load and how far?

Now don't think this pack mule is Eyore from Whinnie the Poo. I never saw Eyore carry a diaper bag that weighed more than her kids for three years. Or endure anything but obscurity. And obscurity ain't me.
Naw Ye. I like the fact that this side of adulthood I know how to trudge through anything when it is hard; find forage in a harsh environment. I can eat tumbleweeds for breakfast.

And, one of these nights I will go out and take a deep breath of wild Nevada and come back feeling like a phone that's been on the charger all night. Ready to help carry the heavy load in good cheer.

Ha Ha Ye. Just know I can give a good head jerk or a thick kick when driven too hard. And when I am loud....I am obnoxious. A good bit of me can be an Ass and has been an  ass over something so benign as being restless. Whatever I want is not always what I want, or what it is cracked up to be. HA. yE. Its a pack mule's life for me.

So what is this about? It has been a whole year now for the Dancing Tumbleweed Blog. Ha Ye. Happy Birthday to me! I began it without many expectations...and tiny faith in my design to be caught in the moment, with the wind at my back...I meant to take a chance.
Ha Ye. The tumbleweed just had to dance.

I feel like my mission was accomplished. I have many Tumbleweed wishes for the year to come. Among them, I plan to celebrate my favorite place to be when I am not a pack mule.
Ahem. Free. Bouncing along like a tumbleweed, planting seeds as I go, caught in nothing but the moment.

Loves,
HjB

a covey for Christmas

The two halves of this year have been like polar opposites. For one half of 2011 I was a stay at home mom on a scenic rural Nevada ranch. I longed for a job and paycheck and a break from my reign as the queen of poo. For the second half of this year I have gone to work, doing the best I can, on this old mine dump that I was born to. And, while I enjoyed my break from the poo and ever so enjoy the small weekly direct deposit, there have been moments when I thought, "Really? Perhaps, this isn't what is best for everyone."

Life on a mine dump can be precarious. For sure it is a harsh climate, and so, it takes assimilation. Having been born to it, my learning curve is ahead of the others. I will admit my clan, is just now settling in as Christmas approaches. It has been moments of bundled joy cut in half by moments of complete disintegration.

I've been long off my blog game. The Wild Nevadan HjB website was derailed why I reassess the new situation. And the dancing tumbleweed blog is quiet because I'm both at a loss for words and photographs, and for time to kill. My work week means I hold tight to every moment with the poop factories, when I get them to myself. Ahem. Time isn't for the killing any more.

This year, I have so enjoyed unwrapping our Christmas ornaments. It is a constant in my inconsistent life. I struggle to maintain schedules and traditions, but those ornaments make me feel less like a freak, and more like a normal person. They make me think I am not a total hopeless case. And that I am not a completely different person than I was five years ago. And, I am not really just a gypsy soul who drags my covey of chuckar from mine dump to mine dump, with just a promise that we'll find grain.

No. I have managed to hang on to some things that are me and mine, and that hold precious space in my heart. There is at least one ornament that is 20 years old that have not lost or destroyed. It was given to me by my best friend when we were in elementary school.

Yesterday was the first day that all of the Christmas ornaments (besides the Nativity Scene) were out and on display. And, because this job of decorating was over, like a used car salesman, I tried to talk myself into the laundry. It did not happen. What did happen was this:

I fed the birds. I have been trying to attract a covey of chukar to my yard despite the gamble that all I will attract are pigeons. But, I miss the wildlife. And I see them scurry for cover all over this old air force housing complex, and so, I have been throwing out the uneaten rice and pasta and fruit and muffins.

Yesterday I watched a flock of tweety birds devour the leftovers, in between the dog and cat and kids going in and out the back door. Finally, after many trips to look out the glass I spotted a curious and cautious chukar on the road, with an eye on those other birds. I had to let the cat in just then and that fat little chukar quickly made his way down the road.

I was disheartened. I threw out the rotting bananas and made several more trips to the back door to spy out the window. Finally a small covey of chukar was eating. I counted six, then seven, then eight. That fat curious and cautious chuckar sat on a rock and watched me watch him. He had his eye on me in the window for every second that I stood there. Not knowing a whole lot about the social dynamics of chukar I imagined he was the daddy.

Funny how the experiences I've had in my own life will translate into what I think is going on in the world around me. In my own "covey" the daddy bird is always on point watching for danger and mine shafts. He is always so preoccupied by the welfare of the rest. I look careless next to his cautious, even though I am not.

I watched for a long time, resisting the need to photo journal it; knowing if I open the door, there they all go. So, let us just go ahead and admit that I will never get a clean, clear, crisp shot of a chuckar grazing on my mine dump.

I thought then of my Grammie, who used to feed the birds outside her house in Kingston. I thought of how she used to watch them, and get to know them over the years that she fed them. I thought about how she used to call her daughter and brag about the chukar.

For a moment, I felt like calling my Grammies daughter, my mother, and bragging about the chukar in my yard. Even though her phone went to voice mail, I still felt like I had accomplished something. It was a memory full of love instead of heartache. And, it could have been a covey of pigeons that visited, but it was not.

Perhaps my traditions aren't confined to boxes of Christmas things. Perhaps there are many constants in my inconsistent life.

Anyhow. A new year is on tap and I am eager to usher it in with its' companion possibilities. This old mining camp has been good to me so far. That score of familiar faces have been more than friendly, real or imagined. I feel as though I have rekindled old friendships and made some new. I have a sense of belonging here. And so, I have faith that I will find the groove to which I fit. Which is better than where I was before, when I was alone in my scenic wonderland ranch with nothing but time to kill.

If my kids and man and I made it down this last, long row to hoe, we will surely make it down the next.

It is a good place to be. At the end of row, ready to begin digging on the next. Ahem. Ready to usher out the year with Christmas tradition and usher in 2012 with anticipation. And hey, with a few "family" traditions inside my mind and a box of Christmas ornaments to pull out annually, I just might save myself heartache over what was, or is, or will be.

And, having just celebrated five years of marriage to my man, there is a sense of safety that I still have my "daddy" chukar, and that he is still both curious enough to check out uncharted territory to find us food; and cautious enough to keep an eagle eye on his covey, while we graze on the mine dump.

It is the season to celebrate things such as these.
Loves,
HjB

Hagar the Horrible. It's a Vikings' life.

I love it here. My job is good. My home is comfy, cozy, coffee by the fireplace kind of warm. There has not been a whole lot of time to enjoy it. I mentioned before that one side of my Americanized mutt family is of Italian decent. The other half of ancestry is heavily Scandinavian.

So, setting forth on the sea of sagebrush with a whole new life on the horizon was pretty damn exciting for the Viking inside me. When it comes to that kind of adventure, I stick my iron helmet on, and stick out my sword and make sail. No matter the outcome I am not scared. I am along for the ride. I always have been.

The only thing that trumps my natural inclination to go with the flow is my claim to Captain of this Pirate Ship. And to that claim, I am not a natural. I hang on to it--for dear life.

The Captain's responsibilities are great and the stress of this last bit of life, (ahem, adventure) on the rest of the family, is not lost on me. And there did come one of those lost in space moments when I realized I had to throw anchor on my own adventure, so to speak, and make focus. Ah, ha. Just because I am not scared does not mean the same for all of us in the boat.

Hell, I know in the long run I will be more free to enjoy the adventure, if I do the work first.  

True. There has been plenty of rewards in this work. It was irony when my almost3 year old son  found a Hagar the  Horrible comic book and would not loose sight of it for two days. I might not have noticed that before.

Still, all that work makes a person thirsty for fun. Today, that "viking blood" inside me was restless. It is like a tickle in the back of the throat. I am overdue for a sunny day with my camera and a dirt road. When I am trying to stay on the focus-wagon I try to drive away the tickle with whatever is handy. After I vacuumed for a few minutes I decided to just take the boys out for a little desert walk. It is but a short distance to get off the pavement from our house.

And little fresh air never hurt anyone. Right? So, camera in hand, we were on our way. We were not even out of the driveway before the complaining started.

After we traveled a football field's length away from the house and off the pavement the complaining escalated to crying. From one child or the other, and sometimes both. Suddenly the dog is deaf and is doing whatever he wants to. The cat is poking along behind us, terrified.

One wants to go this way. The other wants to go another.
They say "My feet are tired."
"Carry me."
"I want to go home."

It was not as satisfing as I had imagined it would be...

When we got home I dug out the last piece of candy from Halloween and broke it in half for them to share. I had thought it a great way to end the crying. Just so you know, an almost three year old Hagar whose legs hurt, does not appreciate the breaking of candy. And so the crying went on for some time. Even the iron viking helmet of mine could not block it out.

I did what I could do as Captain of this Pirate ship. I took two DayQuil capsules with a Monster Energy Drink as a back. I am pre-heating the oven so we can bake cupcakes after lunch. It is the weekend and I will "heel" to them, this time, so I can earn my turn. Ahem. Today the Captain knows she just has to be along for the ride.

So if it is not home, work or kids I am (possibly) not ready for more yet. I guess WildNevadaGirl has to keep my butt on the focus-wagon. You know, the focus-wagon: it carries priorities and is pulled by faith. Faith that a little sacrifice and determination will reap rewards... Well, I better get back to it. Perhaps I will take a picture for next time.
Loves,
HjB

Something to be proud of

The funny thing about a box of left over memories that you never open—the contents are only missed when the box is no longer available for digging through. Something spooky always happens on Nevada Day (Oct. 31) and this year, it seems I have been hitched by an eerie weirdness again. And, right now this box would be helpful to fill in the factual information behind this story, which in my wild mind, is handy but not necessarily required, for a three yard long yarn.

It begins some Nevada Days ago. It was a pretty fall day. October 31 and the year I do not remember. I was trying to find some space between myself and my desk at the Tonopah newspaper office and I wandered down to the Tonopah cemetery. I wasn’t a frequent visitor but it seemed the place to visit that day. I went in search of some dead relative gravesites. One grave which I located belongs my great grandmother Onarina Quintilla Bertolino.

I never knew the woman who migrated from Italy to make her home in nearby Peavine and raise her children in Central Nevada. She died when my father was but half way through childhood. What I knew of her now, and that fateful day, was and is still limited, most of it is in the unreachable memory box.

Did I mention it was October 31—Nevada’s birthday, and upon locating Onarina’s gravesite I discovered it was also her birthday. Funny I should visit the gravesite of a relative I never met, on her birthday and without knowing it was her birthday. More funny is that silly girl fate,  that it was Nevada Day, perhaps one of my favorite “holidays.” I did not call myself the wild Nevadan yet…but perhaps it was a precursor to my fate?

Anyhow, the discovery that day made me feel strange and not at all like returning to my desk so I made some excuses and headed out for a desert romp. The target was Lone Mountain and the way to which I had never really been able to find before. I would get out there on those old dirt roads and find myself headed away rather than toward the destination; or in some tight little spot in the road I did not feel comfortable enough to cross. It all changed on that Nevada day.

On that pretty little Nevada day and Onarina’s birthday I decided it was just the task to take on Lone Mountain again.

Strangely, I twisted and turned and found myself right there at the bottom of her (Lone Mountain). The road ended and I released my hounds and we began a little desert walk up and across some rugged boulders. Some place in the moment the sound of shattering rocks brought my heart to my throat and I found that my dogs and I had surprised a big horn sheep and in its haste to make its way away from us, he sent some rocks flying and rolling.

I was still stuck on the strange coincidence of earlier in the morning. I had my great grandmother on my mind. And, the only other place I’ve witnessed the big horn was Peavine, where my Bertolino relatives and Onarina lived. For a moment I felt very close to this ancestor I had never met. I imagined her walking in the canyon of Peavine, trying to escape her woman’s work and her hounds startling a big horn and being surprised by the boulders that crashed and banged their way down the rugged terrain as that magnificent beast made its way away from her. The way her heart must have beat hard like mine did, even after we discovered that there was no danger and only wonder to behold before our eyes. It was Nevada’s birthday and I am so lucky enough to make contact with her state animal, a big horn sheep.

For a moment my quick heartbeat could have been that of hers. I felt for a moment that the blood that coursed through my veins did come from another, and because of the days’ strange circumstances, probably her. It is not often we actually feel the genetic connection of a blood relative that we never laid eyes on. I can accept and recognize the traits I have inherited from my own grandparents, yes, because I had a personal relationship with each of them. The hair I have on my chin that my Grammie had.

Or, the strange comfort I find in large, empty wild places was passed to me by the original Wild Nevadan, and my paternal grandfather Jim Kiehlack. Perhaps my love of fish and garden and the smell of moo-moos was from Onarina’s son, my grandfather, Pete Bertolino. But, I never met Onarina. I cannot even image what traits she passed forth to me through Pete and then my father, Charles Bertolino, and finally to me. And it is not like anybody ever once said, “Heidi, you are so like your great grandmother Onarina.”

Anyhow, it was a special Nevada day for me. One I will never forget. I bring it up now because Fate is a funny, funny girl. Last weekend my Hon and I took the boys out to Peavine and past the old Bertolino place. We hung around the campground where I sort of wallowed in some very special of my own childhood memories. I was wallowing because for all its glory I only had the camera on my phone to document it. My camera was being cleaned…

Nevermind the wallow. I was present for a proud moment when my kids kicked off their boots and before I could object or tell them they were going to catch the death of cold, ran stark naked to splash and play in Peavine creek.

Ahhh, to be a child and completely oblivious to cold, in the joy of squishing your toes in the mud and feeling water rush across your bare legs.

The moment was romantic. I could not help but pause for a moment to think about all the Bertolino’s who played in that creek….from my great grandmother all the way down to my own boys who have been inheritently mixed with at least one or two Bertolino genes.

And, then, this week an acquaintance surprised me with a short visit and a gift. She said she had been going through some things and come upon a table runner that had been given to her by my great-grandmother Onarina when she was a young woman. As this story goes, she had stopped by that old Bertolino place in Peavine with her new husband or her betrothed and upon hearing the news of such a special occasion, as a new marriage, Onarina had gifted her with the handmade treasure. She said she thought of me when she found it and then she turned it over to me for the keeping.

I am a blessed wild Nevadan girl.

This story is long and it only gets a little bit more spooky. Today, when I checked the mail I found in my box a package notice. I know it is my camera, to which I have to pick up tomorrow on Nevada day. I have anticipated this day much like my own birthday. To have and hold my camera (in perfect working order) is a gift in and upon itself. To receive this gift on the anniversary of Nevada’s statehood (the wilds of Nevada being my favorite subject matter) and on Onarina’s birthday is perhaps as much a coincidence as finding out it was her birthday on her birthday and meeting up with a big horn sheep? I do not know. I do know it makes my Bertolino feel special and a part of something worth pride and ownership and the passing on of love.

So, in honor of Nevada and my great grandmother I have cataloged two ordinary but extraordinary things to which I found myself proud of this week that came upon me through my little boys. Benign in and of themselves but ever so more cherished, because it is that special time of year when I feel so connected to Onarina and the Bertolino blood that courses through me and is genetically entertained within my children, her great great grandchildren. Happy Birthday Woman!

AND Happy Birthday Nevada, to you I give the talents of two Wild Nevadans in training...

I'm having a happy weekend...

So the bloggy blog isn't getting the love it needs and deserves. The camera is in the shop. I've got things to do. You know. Money is tight and Internet is in holding. As in I am holding my horses until some cash flows into my pocket.

Just thought I would say hi; let you know Tonopah is a little busier that it has been in the past couple years. The Mizpah Hotel is officially open and looking sweet and spotless and swank inside. I love to visit thought I must admit the whole money-not-in-my-pockets keeps my visits short and sweet and to the point.

Enjoying my weekend off with family. My little boys are bouncy and happy. Loves,
HjB

Silver Top Grizzly

So over the years I inadvertently collected quite a bit of photos of one of Tonopah's landmarks, the Silver Top. Or, with its counter part; the Grizzly. Together they are (to little ,ol me) the Silver Top Grizzly...

Not but an hour ago I was in the neighborhood of them. I snapped this pic with my camera phone (cuz my boyfriendKodak is in the shop for a cleaning) Both of my girlfriends were not home when I stopped by for a visit. I guess I was visiting old Silver...Hmph.
Still. It is a super chill Saturday. The Silver Top withstands yet another Gale-Force-Wind. Hmph. Naw, it is only a comfortable and constant 10mph. It is October. My girl, Gale's favorite month.

For some reason I think The Silver Top Mine (or maybe the Grizzly?) was the richest of all of Tonopah Mines, producing more silver or silver per ounce than even the Mizpah or any other of the multitudes. The rest of the history is a mystery to me this afternoon because I have not gone back to the house for any of my books to verify my ideas.

It is nap time up there I hear.

If you are as fascinated as I seemingly am than you can look it up yourself or visit the Tonopah Historic Mining Park.

I would fill you in but that would cut into chill time. So out with the new and in with some old photos. Now mind you none are more old than me...I took them.

Enjoy the richest of all Tonopah Mines.??

Happy Saturday.
HjB