An Inconvenienced Hick From the Sticks

So you all know how much I love life in the rural lane. It is where I belong, and winter come big snow, there is not much that could separate me from it.

 

This morning, though, I am reminded of just how inconvenient it is to be a hick from the sticks. Oh, I am one. 

 

For example. This morning I am out of coffee. I was up at 4:45 with the dawn and I was warming water for tea…like I am the queen of England.

 

The whole house is sound asleep and there is no way I can sneak off to the local Chevron in my jammies for a caffene hit. That is a 40 mile, one hour, commitment. I’ll just wait. No biggie.

 

Well, I might as well make a grocery list. There are some good sales in town and I always need milk and bread. I have been too busy getting dirty to bake. There are just a couple more coupons I need to print, there is no reason to pay full price. Hmmm. No ink. No biggie.

 

I think the replacement ink will arrive in the mail today. The mail lady comes but three days a week...not sure now, if the ink is supposed to arrive via the mail, Fed Ex or UPS.

 

Don't get me started on how inconvenient it is to wait for the Fed Ex truck all day and it does not even slow down as it passes...It sounds a lot like life to me too. No biggie.

 

Except, I am drinking tea and not coffee and so I do not think I could connect the dots in this Highlights Magazine that my kids left here.

 

I tumbleweed wish there was a coffee fountain in my front yard. I just sort of feel inconvenienced by the fact there is no Starbucks right here. I am pretty sure this is going to be the biggest catastrophe of the wildnevadan nation, do-date. Just kidding. 

 

Because, I can usually shake off my royal inclinations…I think it has to be the tea.

 

I’m sure at some point I will just pull on a pair of jeans, find a hat, pack the kids in the car and head to the mail box. 

 

If there is no printer ink, I will just say screw the groceries and coupons and head my car toward the nearest gas station--a b-line for a cup of the strongest, darkest, thickest coffee and a $15 can of Folgers to hold me over. Sigh. Only someone with as much money as the queen of England buys Folgers for $15. Oh this being from the sticks is not convenient today...Right?

 

Just waiting on the kids now. Hmph. They are sleeping in for the first time ever. Inconvenient! Wow. Now that should never be thought of as inconvenient for this particular hick in the sticks... no more tea for me today. I better switch over to Pepsi! I just scared myself!

 

Anyhow, I bet it is noon before I resolve the conspiracy theory. What a waste. I hope your Friday is chugging right along by now! Happy Friday!

HjB

June 24, 2011

Old Biker Babes and These Three Jeans

 

Not much changes around here in a week. It is Wild Wednesday again and I am still trying to put as large a space as humanly possible between myself and the laundry. I cannot understand how it is, my kids always seem to run a muck half naked, and still there is a turn-over of muddy outfits like it is nobody's business.

 

I am between cycles so now is a good time to explain the concept behind wild Wednesdays. Because, my mind is fresh on bikes and bikers and old biker babes, from that little visit to the Elko Jamboree last week, a favorite wild woman/Wednesday story of mine comes to mind. Picture this...

 

It is the middle of summer in the middle of the Midwest and I am in the middle of my second pregnancy. I find myself in the truck outside a store that faces a river tavern, which banks the Mississippi.

 

I am alone in the hot stickiness except an acquaintance, whose acquaintence has gone in after ice, beer, I have no idea what else. Everybody else on earth is at work or whatnot, because it is probably Wednesday.

 

Anyhow, I have a hot thirsty eye on the bar, and was halfway through a tumbleweed wish that I was not pregnant. Out comes this older woman (over 65) in full biker babe regalia. She has the whitest hair you ever saw, black chaps, the leather jacket, the black tank top minus a bra, a little-bit leathery skin, and a big old tasseled biker babe purse. In one hand she carries her drink, which has been put into a "to go" plastic cup. Her friends, are sort of holding on to her, and kind of guiding her toward a vehicle.

 

I say, sort of because, just as I took notice of this woman and her obvious merriment, she bit dust. Her knee high leather boots gave way to the gravel parking lot. She lay flat on her back, head laying on a rock and her giant purse is now 15 feet away. Her friends stood over her, probably looking for blood. In her hand was the cocktail, which was at the end of an arm that was strait up in the air. I am sure she had to be bleeding about the elbows, but she flops herself over and manages to somehow stand back up.

 

She holds out her drink to her friends as if to make a toast. "I did int spill!" I can hear her across the street. And, I think, what a morning the group must have had, if to judge the spectacle, debacle and debochery that has now peaked before the sun even.

 

I was just getting ready to yell out the window, "You go girl!" when the acquaintence next to me said, "Oh, that poor woman!"

 

Poor woman? O my gosh that woman was having a freaking blast! I was probably glowing nuclear green from jealousy. Did I mention I was half pregnant and it was mid-way through summer in the mid-west? Yes, there was sweat pouring out of places on my body that no human sweats from!

 

"Well, I better be having that much fun when I am that age," I told the acquaintance, "Because, I am NOT having ANY fun right now."

 

Years have gone by and I still think about that wild woman outside that riverside tavern every so often. I love old biker babes and their audacious way they carry on the unexpected while the rest of us are headed to the laundry room or cubicle land.

 

It also brings about what should be wild on Wednesday and why we are set to celebrate wild Wednesdays as often as Wednesdays come, here on the Dancing Tumbleweed Blog.

 

Life being mostly work is not usually fun. Even though I do not have a regular work week, it is not impossible for me to feel frayed by Wednesday. I have been to the office so I know some of you will be out to a meeting or other enterprise until dusk. Wednesdays are long and most of life being driven by unfun work, it is good to take a minute, between cycles, to just be wild on Wednesdays.

 

So, on wild Wednesdays at the Wild Nevadan HjB, anything goes. Wild Wednesday posts are for you to enjoy an unexpected break from your day with one of my wild moments. It is a mini decompression machine. It is hump day, wildnevadan style.

 

So where did I leave that old biker babe? Not in the gravel parking lot! Back to her: she was right in the middle of a wild Wednesday but I would hazard, regret came later or the next day. So, as sad as this sounds, wild Wednesday is not about going hog-wild. Dang it.

 

 Alright, its todays wild Wednesday confession time. 

I'm calling it "these three jeans."

 

Did I mention I have an overwhelming pile of laundry which multiplies within the confines of my laundry room? Well, I do.

 

Have I mentioned before how much I hate laundry? Well, I do. (Sometimes, when I hit the button on the dryer I fantasize that I dropped a match on that load instead).

 

And part of this huge mess that seems to always be my Wednesday is these three jeans.

 

I do not think anyone will argue that I have not worn them out past their usefulness. The knees and asses are g.o.n.e.

 

I took a good look at them this morning and figured  one more time through the cycle of life that leads to the washing machine and dryer will vaporize them into jean dust. And, an unexpected thought came to my wild mind...

 

 

Yes I did!

Because, it is Wednesday and I am wild like that!

And now there are three less jeans to wash!

Have a wild Wednesday and thanks for reading,

HjB

June 22, 2011

Today's Wild Boquet

I love it that the state flower of Nevada is sagebrush and the wildflowers can be considered "weeds."

This morning we set out to enjoy one of my most favorite Nevada summer activities. To take pics, and pick wild flowers.

 

It is good to live in a place where the weeds are so pretty. Come along with a wild Nevadan in training and the HjB, while we select the finest of Nevadas weeds for todays' wild bouquet.

 

I have to thank my wild Nevadan in training for not only bringing me about, and picking out, todays boquet...it was he who also reminded me to take them out of my hat holes and put them in water so we can enjoy our Nevada wild and pretty weeds all week.

 

Funny these wild weeds can be half dead and you put them in a little water and they perk right up.

 

Thanks for reading.

HjB

June 20, 2011

 

Waylon Songs and lil Cowboys

Last night my kids gravitated toward the mechanical bull at the Elko Motorcycle Jamboree. There was quite a crowd and I was a little surprised and nervous when Colton decided he wanted to try a ride. Ah, but there was no age limit and Daddy was on hand to keep the confidence going.

 

Never ceases to amaze me, my lil yee-haw yellin' cowkids. Whenever they shout those hearty yee-haws, I am first proud, then scared. As romantic and beautiful as those rugged old cowboys are, we don't want our little ones to live the life of praying for the rain to start or stop. Its a hard life and cowboys are a dying breed... course we are proud to say, now that boy can rope, ride, hammer and paint, do things with his hands that most men can't...Anyhow it's not a Brooks and Dunn song in my brain this morning. It is Waylon, always Waylong that comes to mind when I hear little yee haws.

 

 I'm gonna share if for you now. First the lyrics, then I hope the Utube video I found. I know you love them cowboys too!

by Waylon Jennings

Cowboys ain't easy to love and they're harder to hold.
They'd rather give you a song than diamonds or gold.
Lonestar belt buckles and old faded levis,
And each night begins a new day.
If you don't understand him, an' he don't die young,
He'll prob'ly just ride away.

Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys.
Don't let 'em pick guitars or drive them old trucks.
Let 'em be doctors and lawyers and such.
Mamas don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys.
'Cos they'll never stay home and they're always alone.
Even with someone they love.

Cowboys like smokey old pool rooms and clear mountain mornings,
Little warm puppies and children and girls of the night.
Them that don't know him won't like him and them that do,
Sometimes won't know how to take him.
He ain't wrong, he's just different but his pride won't let him,
Do things to make you think he's right.

Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys.
Don't let 'em pick guitars or drive them old trucks.
Let 'em be doctors and lawyers and such.
Mamas don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys.
'Cos they'll never stay home and they're always alone.
Even with someone they love.

 

To watch the video, click here http://youtu.be/N_a4BU09GrU

Have a yee-haw good time with your lil cowboys today.

HjB

June 18, 2011

Old Pictures For A Wild Wednesday

picture this...

 

I am only 50 percent sure this is a picture of me. It could be my sister, WjB. I remember the swing set, and the skinned knees, elbows and ears from when I met the hard surface. And surface quality was not an issue then. When I look at it now, I cannot help but think that a girl who grows up with a swing set on a mine dump might just be a little bit tougher than the girl who always fell on grass.

 

 

Renota, Blondie, Grammie

 

I have written about "Grammie" before, and be sure she will continue to visit the Dancing Tumbleweed Blog, as I drive forward. In spite of her residence in Heaven, she was, and always will be, an inspiring part of my existence on earth.

 

She was a real woman. A real lady. She always had a pair of bookends together. She made it look easy. And she inspired my girly girl side.

 

My girly girl side is somewhat suppressed by the presence of all these boy children in my life, but I did wear a dress every single day of second grade. I always make a point to paint my toenails and wear earrings. My best diamond earrings, a family heirloom, are for everyday wear, and the costume jewelry is for when I go out.

 

but,

 

There were some other people around, too.

They also inspired me from a young age.

The result was this.

 

Curlers, check.

Baseball cap, check.

Dress shoes, check.

Pink snuggies, check.

Chocolate cheeks, check.

Hand sewn, lacy pillow, check.

 

Can you believe I just put that picture on the Internet?

It is Wild Wednesday. So believe it.

 

Here's another old picture I love.

 

Not sure what exactly the plan is here.

I am also not sure who witnessed and photographed it.

I bet $5 it was Grammie.

I find the box of old photographs delightful.

 

Because I do not want your parting thoughts of me to be of me drinking out of jug, with my butt up in the air like a stink bug, here is another "lady" like picture somebody had mind to memorialize.

 

I hope you like my old pictures. It was fun to share them.

Have a wild Wednesday wild Nevadans.

And thanks for reading,

HjB

May 18, 2011

Wild Women Do and They Don't Regret It Wednesday

He says: Ain't I big? Don't you want to dance with me?

She says: Hmmm. I guess. It is hump day, ahem, I mean wild Wednesday, and they say wild women do, and they don't regret it.

 

I had a serious case of "dragon ass" this morning. That is, I was dragging my ass around drinking coffee trying to wake up to no avail. And, this afternoon I should be tending to the laundry and the inside of my house wile the boys nap. But, I am not.

I am blogging.

 

Wild women do and they don't regret it...

 

So this morning. In my dragon ass state, I was hanging around the kitchen, avoiding the sunscreen and bug spray ritual I guess, and I finally got up the gumption to cut into the pineapples.

 

Alright. I'm going to admit this wild girl woman has never once cut open a pineapple on her own.

 

Ahem. I really never knew I liked pineapple until I was pregnant and my mom popped open a fresh one and I stood over the kitchen sink and gobbled the whole thing. I had a pretty big appetite with the second kid--it scared my family members...but, wild women do and they don't regret it.

 

One was just right, and the other one one was rotten so it was designated chicken fodder.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

So, the trick to a pineapple is not how you slice it. It is about how ripe it is. So, now I think I know all about pineapples. And the rotten one was not wasted. Wild women do and they don't regret it.

 

Then, I was invited to help with some business of diverting the rage of water by my man before the third cup of coffee kicked in. Outside, it is obvious the snow has started to melt of the mountains. The sound of rushing water can be heard not too far off in the distance, and just about every place you walk is squishy.

 

Winter, ahem spring, is over and summer is here. The choke cherry blossoms were in full glory and the wild snap dragons popped against the green backdrop. And, there was no time to take pictures.

 

Ever since it peaked 75 degrees there is just too much business to tend to. So, I am beat up from my feet up. I have cuts and bug bites from all this time spent in the garden, yard and mowing...ahem I mean, generally existing outside the house, and as far away from the biggest laundry pile you can imagine, as I can get.

 

Wild women do and they don't regret it.

 

After the water business I was wet to my gizzard, so I went for a second set of clothes and mowed until I broke the mower. Ahem. I like to go off road. I am inside now, and past the vibrating hell that has been attached to may hands for two days. And, since my man fixed my mess, the wild woman is not regretting it. Ha. I have flexed my biceps twice and admired them! LOL.

 

Ah, and so we arrive at nap time, the holiest of times in my day.

 

Today I wore those boys out to the point they could barely carry themselves back to the house for lunch and dry clothes.

 

And a double nap is the most sacred types of naps that exist on my earth.

 

So, the wild woman does not regret it.

 

Can you tell which angel I would be if I were lucky enough to be an angel? Yes. The one with the crooked hailo praying extra hard! I pray this garden takes off and kicks some booty. I pray the laundry goddess does not take my outside privlidges away. And, I pray this awesome double nap lasts long enough for me to have a Pepsi and a smile all by myself.

 

I'm a wild woman and I won't regret it.

Have a wild Wednesday, y'all.

HjB.

June 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

Picking Yellowy-purpley wildflowers

My suitcase is unpacked, but it is still on the floor in my bedroom. My man asked, "What do you want me to do with this?"

"Just leave it there, I'm going to fill it up. I'm not done going yet," I said.

He rolled his eyes and asks, "Where?"

"I don't know!" I answer. In my mind, I have three to five places in mind, but being that I have chores to do and some logistics to work out, I don't share this information. 

It is Sunday, I hope he just gets us out of the house, and off the ranch for the day. I was elbow deep in breakfast dishes when he tells me he will watch the boys, if my sister and I want to go play.

Really? Yes, really. Alright. So I dress and SPF 50 myself and the kids, give about a handful of orders, grab the camera, the Map Book, my sister and her car.

So the sis asks, "Where?" Good question. I am still in shock I think.

Welcome to Ruby Valley and the Ruby Mountains.

Generally speaking, Ruby Valley it is a pretty, farmy-ranchy very rural valley in Northern Nevada, in Elko County. It's one of those places you don't know about unless you have reason to visit it--or a spirit that begs to find out where that road goes.

I have wandered this way before but I see on the map book that there is a sulfer hot springs way out there. I ask WjB, if she's game to blow about 100 miles and possibly not get where we are going. She is fine with it, and tells me to let her know when its time to stop and take pictures.

Next to this old building is another, less old, community center. Behind both buildings I spy an outhouse.

Why are old outhouses as fun as old buildings?

Oh, wait.

There is a His AND Hers

Anyhow, we finally made it to the end of the pavement. And to the place in the map book that says I need to pay attention for the sulpher hot springs. Nestled in the fields, hills and corrals and bunches of trees that belonged to somebody, was some white dirt. It probably had a sulpher hot springs down there. We did not see the road right to it. Of course. So we just kept going.

Until we found

And, 

Some purply-yellow wild flowers.

The best part about wandering with my wild Nevadan sister is that when I said it was okay to turn back around, she answers, "Oh, lets' keep going."

I don't need a whole lot of encouragement.

 The urge to keep going is as infectious as a fungus.

She climbed until she had the thought, I better find a place to turn around before I have to back down this hill. (She told me.) Plus, we found another man's junk to check out.

And,

Purpley-yellow wild flowers to pick.

I do know that these flowers are called Lupin. They are a common wild flower in both the mountains and valleys of Nevada in spring. They can be purple or yellow or purply-yellow (or is it yellowey-purple?).

I'm a bit of a flower child. These, and the Indian Paintbrush blooms, have been ALL my heart wanted to see these past couple months.

So, this past Sunday it was not important to know: where I was going; what it is supposed to be called; or what it was once used for.

All that was important was to stop and admire the beauty of it, while we traveled to and from it, and remember to look behind it...

What a great Sunday drive down an old dirt road and once upon a drive past a Humboldt access sign. Hope you enjoyed the pictures,

HjB

June 6, 2011