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

Desert loving walk-about

So this is how it has been the last two weeks. I stay at a friend's house in Tonopah and go to work; my man and the kids stay in Big Smoky Valley-Kingston and wait patiently for Mommy to call. On the weekends it is reunion and laundry catch up. I won't lie, it has been rough for the family. But, working has been so good for me. My feet, not so much. I know I will build up what has gotten soft the past couple of years while I was on full-time Mommy watch.

I had hoped that by the time this Friday rolled around we would know (yes or no) about the house we picked out in town; spend the weekend U-hauling it; and next week settling into our new life together. No game. We did not hear. I was disappointed, but as it happens, that was probably for the best. Blessings are often disguised by the initial disappointment of not getting what you want.

When I awoke on Friday I had a feeling that things were about to get good...real good. Then, when we had time to kill, the family wandered out to the Old Bottle Dump, off Knapp Ave. and the ace (ahem, sign) I had been waiting for, was found.

Meet my boys first real introduction to desert living... a baby Horney Toad!

Friday was the type of day that puts the wind back in the sail of the sailboat that has been just drifting. As much as I want to share the details...somewhere along the line I learned that when you have a really good poker hand, it is best to keep that fact to yourself until betting is closed. So, since bets are still open you will just have to take my word for it. I have one Ace in, and even with no word on the house, my hand is looking like one that will probably win this round. The Lord Blesseth Me.

Because we were not set to move this weekend, something special and much needed was able to happen. It is good to feel loved, and the boys, the dog, and the cat have been very snugly with me. Wherever I go, in or out, or for a walk down an old dirt road, everyone wants to go with me.

It has been some time since I took regular, desert loving, walks. Far too long. So, on Friday night and Saturday morning, the whole gang, (minus my man who is still helping Wild Nevadan Kim with her straw bale house) went on walk-abouts.

I have never had a cat follow me on a walk so I found it funny. I laughed often when she meowed and panted, and her and old Toby Dog tried to find shade under a pine tree. Laughter is a good stress reliever and was appreciated by all of us who have trudged the past two weeks while the family is apart, adrift. A month into this new life, we all want to have our things around us, a roof over our head to call our own. A schedule. A routine. Do not ever tell on me for wanting those two things. I am usually against such rigid things as schedules and routines. But, right now, we ALL need them.

And, so much of the stress from going and going and going was finally relieved. The Lord Blesseth Me.

Being apart from the boys makes me appreciate them so much more. In this photo, my wild Nevadans in training were discussing pine nuts. I had not realized they remembered, or knew of such things. They are small boys and while they have had pine nuts before, I never expected they would remember it. Colton told his brother, "They are tiny and we eat them." I laughed some more. It was a day for throaty chuckles and smiles all around. Boy do I love a good desert loving walk-about.

When you are as busy as I have been, it is hard to stop and appreciate such things as blessings. It was so nice to take that deep breath this weekend. Also nice to have time to appreciate what is around the corner...now that there is wind in our sail and one Ace in the hand that will be revealed soon enough....It is nice to stop and blog and share what I observed this weekend with my walk-abouts. The weather has turned. There is chill in the air, which, at the moment is laced with the sweet smell of wet sage. It is almost time to pick pine nuts. So begins fall. Rabbit Brush blooming. Hunting. Pine nut picking. Yellow aspen. And, jacket weather.

Thanks for reading,

HjB

Notes from this week

It has been a good week for me. The wild Nevadan girl inside me is cheerful and optimistic. I landed a job in Tonopah and with any luck will have the family moved from Kingston soon. The job is going great but has cut into my blog fix. So, here’s my notes about things and me, from this past week.

This weekend my family was invited to a wall raising party for a straw bale house nearby, in Big Smoky Valley. It is a dream fruition of a Wild Nevadan friend of mine, Kim, that has been about seven years in the making. She managed to talk about 30 of her friends and family into some very hot, dusty, labor. The results are astounding….naw it is wild.

The boys LOVED it.

Hay All...and 

I just had to post this pic of Kim's daughter... I love women who aren't afraid of power tools...Work it baby!

Of course the kids finally wore out on the third day (and there seemed to be plenty of hands) so I made a little excuse about them needing a nap, so I might take them home. And, the car was already very dirty so I found a dirt road I had never taken before to toot around on, you know, until they woke up.

 

Then, of course I found something interesting under a pine tree. The words to a George Strait song came to mind. I bet these clay pigeons will not be here for a long time; because they are here for a good time...

At this point I realized I was about to go off the well beaten path in the Mommy car, with my boys, and without having told anyone where I was going, or what I was up to.

And, so, it was time to turn around and head home. 

So, there was my weekend off from work. And here are some notes I gathered as I meandered my week, but was too busy to actually post on The Dancing Tumbleweed Blog.

Notes: A few somethings that are less than domestic about HjB...

• A tool I love: the spade shovel. I am a mother mucker.
• A tool I hate: the hammer. Wild. Whack. Fest.
• Favorite object: my red cowgirl boots, but my husband’s boots do nicely as slip on, “I’m taking this out to the trash barrel.”
• Something I find randomly inspiring: old women in old pickup trucks. Thumbs up. You go girl.
• Something you will find by the coffee pot every morning: a coffee, sugar, milk/cream mess that I will get around to when I am good and ready.
• Something you can always talk me in to: heavy whipping cream.
• Something I do every day that I have to talk myself in to: showering
• Something I do quarterly (or when tasked) that I really really have to talk myself in to: shaving my legs
• Something you will never catch me doing: sewing, knitting or crochet.
• Something you will catch me doing only if my mother is on her way or if I believe I will get paid: matching socks.
• Household items not allowed in my house (no matter what) mostly because I believe they are 1. dangerous or 2. cause unnecessary work that will somehow be tasked to me (the woman), which would offend me: a mechanical sewing machine and the iron/ironing board combo. 
• Common household item I cannot live without under any circumstance: coffee pot.
• Favorite accessory: a hat to fit any mood. The bigger the hat the better. Lately it has been an old black cowboy hat that I confiscated from my man. But, like the heavy whip, I can be talked in to anything.
• Things I forget to bring when I am traveling: Either my toothbrush or my hair brush, but not both.
• The most domestic (and weirdest) thing about me: The laundry: It is all my fault there is a giant pile because I do have particulars. I cannot handle too big a wash load; or wet clothes that are not dried right away; And so, I double rinse and triple fluff. Every. Single. Load. I have no issue with how the clothes are folded but nobody is as invested in the laundry as myself, so it is always mine to fold.

...And just because I am feeling it, I found the blog notes I lost to cyber space last Tuesday night so I might as well open that can of worms and insert my foot here: Keep in mind I was on location in Tonopah working my fool head off and without the fam.

‘Twas the eve of Wild Wednesday. 8/30/2011. A gentle breeze is through yonder window that will wake me with its light. Already I can imagine the chucker browsing in the street and yard below when I rise to greet tomorrow. You know, Wednesday.

At the moment I am slightly humming with the satisfaction of two days a workin’. I have seen more than several hundred familiar faces and feel like I fit right back into the mix. Well, that is blind hope for you. Tumbleweed wishes for happy trails and dust tails.

I have nothing wild planned, but have no doubt my and your Wednesday will be as wild as that which proceeded. Are you tired with this business of living a week at a time? Do we dare call it a club? Ah, I say over the hump to Friday, and if we are lucky, it is a four day weekend ahead.

Rest will be good and sweet with that comforting 10 mph breeze. Cheers to the rest of the week.

Loves, HjB

Mizpah Memories

Mizpah by Julia A. Baker

And "God keep watch 'tween thee and me";
This is my prayer;
He looks thy way, He looketh mine,
And keeps us near.

I find it both ironic and iconic that my arrival coincides with the grand reopening of Our Matron the Mizpah.
It is pure unplanned romantic craziness.

One does not grow up in her shadow unaffected. By the time I became the green horn reporter at the Tonopah Times-Bonanza & Goldfield News, the outlook for her was a bit bleak. I embarked on a one woman crusade keep her memory aflame as best I could, while she sat vacant steeping in secrets and ghost stories. I will tell you in a moment why I do not regret it for a second that I would whisper her name whenever I could find an excuse. It is a faith-based calling.

Oh, Tonopah. I do not even think the locals would argue that most who drive by (and plenty who still live there) think the town is a hole. A town on top of the mountain that is, now, but a hole. Even with the Matron aboard it is would take an offering plate collection of like minds to change that perspective...I digress.

Then, there are the crazies who like old T-town and the Matron for her unhol-e-ness. My girl Andrea says it best when she refers to out of the 365 you get 120 of pure bliss. Old Tonopah is definitely not for the faint hearted. Home is home. And, even when I am mad at or away from old Tonopah, it is like Julia A. Baker says in the Mizpah poem, "Yet God keep watch 'tween thee and me; Both be His care; One arm round thee and one round me. Will keep us near...."

have only just now admitted to myself I will not attend the grand opening. It does not jive with the family schedule. I have appeased myself with thoughts of lunch dates or after work cocktails, in her arms...sigh... because it was finally meant to be. I may not be there to celebrate the occasion, but I will rejoice.

There are one million memories swirling through my mind like the dress I imagine the lady in red wore, as she swished down the hallway. Romantic memories. Insanely mundane and of no consequence memories. A belly full of laughs with your best girl ever because you both ran away from home for a night kind of memories...That night we traded keeping the home fire burning (tending to the frozen pipes) for two turns at bubble baths in the hotels' old claw footed bath tubs.  It was definitely among those 120 days of bliss albeit in the middle of the hole. Without my best girl ever by my side, the memory is so much more important.

A few months ago, when I first heard the high hopes of Our Matron's revival I was immediately pleased. A little smile of  good- for-her-congratulations was on my face. As far away as I felt, I could not help but want to wish that project well. When it is boom and bust, every single boom counts. It will not save a dying town, but it does give her a leg to which to brace herself as she trudges along. The revival of the Mizpah and Tonopah are not one in the same. Again the words to the Mizpah poem is in mind, "Should wealth and fame perchance be thine, And my lot lowly be, Or you be sad and sorrowful, And glory be for me; Yet God keep watch 'tween thee and me; Both be His care;One arm round thee and one round me; Will keep us near."

I have been in and out of Tonopah quite a bit in the weeks leading up to this grand re-opening and nothing could not spoil my excitement over it. My best Mizpah memory comes to mind in tandem with that inexperienced reporter gig I held way back when. On that day, Sandy Harmon graced me with a grand tour and at some point brought me to the roof.

It seemed a bit precarious at first, to be on top of her. After my equilibrium adjusted, and in the excitement of the moment, I gazed upon the town below in every direction. For a minute I saw what those four men saw when they celebrated the Matron's birth with fine wine and cigars over 100 years ago.

I saw what they saw. I saw potential for prosperity. And, in that moment it did not matter to me the doors and windows to the hotel, and the town, were shuttered.

Even my deepest, darkest hour of self invested angst I never once looked at Tonopah the way I did before that moment I spent roof-top. I would go so far as to say my perspective of the whole world changed that day. It really did. It gave me the kind of fuel that drives freight trains forward.

Faith is a powerful force. Those men had it behind them when they built her. Obviously the new owners have a bit behind them, or they would not dare. And this coincidence of my homecoming, and her grand re-opening seems such sweet destiny....pure unplanned romantic craziness. Such a memory brings the lesson full circle. A little reminder of faith in myself and things that are finally meant to be.

I do not know what will happen next but I think Julia A. Baker says it best when she wrote it.
Yet coming to the Mercy seat,
My soul will meet with thine.
And "God keep watch 'tween thee and me,"
I'll whisper there.
He blesseth thee, He blesseth me,
And we are near.

Thanks for reading, HjB.

To read the poem in its entirety you can visit this link: Mizpah by Julia A. Baker

Go for It, Girl. It is Wednesday.

I have twiddled myself down to 15 minutes on the clock. I have exactly that long until the rice needs to go on; I have 45 minutes until dinner about finishes. For the sake of Wild Wednesday I said, "Go for it girl."

Confession # 1: I have not brushed my hair (and nobody noticed) for about 3-5 days. Depending on what you consider hair brushing.

Confession # 2: I spent the entire day on my Internet. I transferred my entire blog, even some pretty lame posts to a new site. Did you notice things looked weird? It was the fun part of my day--the wildly not going to get dressed because it is the National first time I have had Internet in FOREVER day.
~  WELCOME ~ and I'll explain more later...
Confession # 3: I am not entirely impressed by my obsession with: the comma, the semi-colon, the run on sentence and misspelling of things; ie the complete lack of ability to edit in face of my little "publish" high. It is my nerdy girl thing. Wildnevadan girl like wifi... yes I can hear my 9th grade English teacher saying, "When in doubt, leave it out."

Confession subanomoly # 1.2.3.4.5.6... Things look bright for tomorrow but the wind is kind of blowing right now. I had plans for a pie chart from the old website that gave me hope about moving the cheese to a free blog spot. I have dinner to cook and the timer has gone MISSING. I guess nerdy gir, ahem The Wild Nevadan HjB, l will return with some kind of traffic report at a later date....So, Wild Wednesday to you my loveys. And, just keep on reading...
Loves,
a tumbleweed dancing... The Wild Nevadan HjB

A Dose of Reality

I have never been one to blend into the scenery. I am not a wall flower; I am more the wild flower. I'm not the sweet morning song of a yellow canary. I am quick like a humming bird, in and out as fast as I can buzz through; and my metabolism devours the sweet nectar of life until it is expired, and then I am off to the next adventure, ahem, flower.

 

So to speak, I am not the calming, gentle affect of an evening at home by the fire. No, not me. I am a wild land fire on a hot windy day. I might as well wear a red furry coat around this month, because it is that easy to hear and see me as I pass by.

 

Whether it is a blessing or a curse, it is the state of my being. I have had to embrace it; to lovingly accept it as a part of who I am. And, over the years and though it sometimes conflicts with my shy and gentle side, when I find the need to blend into the scenery has overcome me, I just put on my furry red coat and fringe panties and with false bravado beneath my ass, climb on the bar....kidding!

 

I have instant karma too. The minute I need a reality check, the Lord always provides one for me. I have one of my wild Nevadan stories to tell today. I shouldn't. I don't want to. But, it is like a red fur coat and fringe panties. You can't get away with wearing such an outfit, unless you are willing to shake those cha chas. False bravado does, in fact, sometimes turn into real bravado...facing fears being what we humans must do, all too often.

 

So, I blogged last week, about how this old naked stick bush has not got hung up in the fence, once, since the adventure of this new life began. That same day I reported to my mother, who we lovingly refer to as the wagon master because of her place as matriarch of the family, that things are going along well, with an up tick, a round of positive attitudes and such.

 

"We haven't even wrecked the place." I told her about our temporary home, my grandmother's house.

 

She knows about my tendency to break glass and what not. I am sure she was releved to hear as much. I know I was overly happy to report as much.

 

And so this naked stick bush has been so happy (even without a job or Internet service) my general attitude could be compared to a wildnevadan dancing on the bar, in perpetual state of happy hour. You know since the gate was left open and the tumbleweed inside me escaped and started dancing on this wind, there hasn't been one reason to trouble myself with toil. I have done nothing but cultivate the celebration, inside. Already, I have gained a much needed four pounds, in my sated state.

 

Like I said before, when a good dose of reality is needed to bring me back to Earth, the Lord never fails to bring me to it. Such is what happened this weekend and now the good men and women of the Kingston Volunteer Fire Department are my heroes.

 

And, I have been given credit for "being the most exciting thing to happen around here in awhile." They have no idea how the law of attraction that affects this old naked stick bush...

 

Yes, the rumor is true. There was a small, man made, brush fire on the property in Kingston. No real damage was done, except to actual sagebrush and spirits, which has dampened my tumbleweed ability to dance. Oh, talk about finding myself hung up in the fence despite the wind. Talk about the end of that extended feeling of happy hour.

 

I might have never even mentioned it here on the Dancing Tumbleweed blog, because it was embarrassing; and I do not know for sure, except that there was no lightning, how the fire began. But, a friend from Tonopah left a message on my phone last night; and he already knew a version of the story. Sometimes, being the girl in the red fur coat and fringe panties is a travesty! And, as small as the hill and dale is between Kingston and Tonopah, it is quite a distance for such a tale to travel so fast....ahem it crossed a county line!

 

So I will give you all I know. Yes. I had to dial 911. In my state of panic I told dispatch it was "An emergency!" and not knowing the real address on James Court of that little yellow house I have made a visit to every few months for 33 years, I added, "The fire is highly visible! Just get in the fire truck, and come on!" And they did. And between them, the equipment, and their quick response time, and my foresight to have called them immediately, TRAGEDY was AVERTED.... THANK YOU LORD.

 

And, so I have been shaking my head in dismay and embarrassment for days, unable to dance or get out of this fence I was caught up in when the fire began. And, I was only temporarily relieved the wagon master did not reach through the phone and strangle me when I told her about the mysterious incident. And, now it being Monday again, I know it is time to get my red fur coat and pull up my big girl red fringe panties so that I might  metaphorically hop back on my horse and just embrace what was just a little too much of me. You know...Ride cowgirl, ride...

 

So, starting today, I am going to call "it" a minor setback. And, it being time to dance again, I shall return to the duty of that. But, this time I shall dance with my feet on the ground (instead of the metaphorical bar and happy hour in which I referred to earlier). And, this time, I am dancing with a good dose of reality lit under my ass.

 

Have a good week you all. I hope I see you again before wild Wednesday rolls around!

HjB

Aug. 22, 2011

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