What if?

What if Pinterest, which I do love, didn't make me feel sometimes like an epic failure?

What if all those years ago I had actually been successful at making non-meat gluten and TVP burgers in Relief Society?
 (just so you know they are SOOO gross.)

What if I was always on time?  HAHAHAHA!!!!!

What if I could make wedding dresses like Maggie Sotero? It will always burn in my heart that I could not make that danged dress, although the one I could make turned out to be adorable and perfect. And the other two I've made seemed to fit the bill. After all, they are still married!


Well. I can't. And to tell you the truth, I think it's okay to be less than a Pinterest-perfect, non-TVP-burger-producing, perfectly punctual person.

So here's why I'm writing this. I do love Pinterest and Instagram and Fixer Upper and all that jazz, but you know what, I do okay. I do not style my mantel or entry perfectly. I still can't make a good non-meat burger because frankly, I do not believe yet that they exist and I'm here to tell you that a burger made of gluten and textured vegetable protein is pretty darned yucky. I'll never be a prompt punctual person because I'm too ADD to keep on task to pay attention to minutes ticking away. Regardless of the people who say 'better never late', it's not going to happen.

And I've decided to act on my wonderfully acceptable imperfections by first telling you to stop thinking that maybe you should be like all the people who get so much done every day using their totally cute planners that have every single second of every single day written down and scheduled out, including their children's lives. Not fair to them. Not at all. Talk about stress, geez. Lighten up a little!

Okay to use planners in moderation for sure, because if I don't write my appointments down I forget them, and I dislike doing things electronically because I am pretty good at ignoring random beeps which are supposed to jog my memory into jumping through a hoop or attending to an appointment. Doesn't work. I don't like being beeped at. Writing it down reinforces whatever it is into my memory. Just saying that pencil and paper not a bad idea if you don't take it over the top and over do!

I read a long time that Amish women who quilt so perfectly don't do it perfectly on purpose. They believe that nothing is perfect but God so they always make a 'mistake.' They turn a square sideways; they use the 'wrong' color in a block. It's called the Humility Block. They acknowledge, in earnest, the perfection of true Creation, and admit with humility, respect and love that their skills, while incredible , are not equal. Whether or not this sweet tradition is true or not, it rings true with me.


So, I've been thinking what if. What if I did some stuff on my Etsy shop that was normal. Not elaborate. Not super-cool. Not machine-embroidered, monogrammed, or appliqued,  but just your every-day, run of the mill, mom made this at home because she loves me and thinks I'll like it kind of thing. Pretty much like I made for my family who I think liked and appreciated what they got. I'm not dying to sell a ton of stuff, but I am pretty serious about trying to help the young mothers of our age realize that they just simply don't have to fit that mold. If I can make it easier to be real, not perfect, regular, and to help kids realize as well that they can wear or play with things that do not have a LABEL, then I'd be pretty happy.

I have an Etsy shop. It doesn't sell much. I guess maybe there's a lot of competition out there and thats okay. I'll probably end up giving the dresses I've made to my grandgirls anyway, and I'd rather they get them. But sometimes, I hope that a mama is searching for something she can't make, that isn't too expensive  that will make her little feel special. Or even better, maybe she'll learn to make it herself. Imperfectly. With seams that aren't always serged or encased or French-seamed. Just stitched with lots of love and hope because that's what matters so much. It doesn't have to be perfect. Or popular. Or labelled.

What if we were okay with being real? I think I might work to add the 'perfectly real' items to Etsy and see what happens. Guaranteed imperfect. Guaranteed to have love attached. If you would like something cozy and warm and not-very-fancy made for you, let me know. heads-up folks: they won't be perfect.

But hugs will be stitched in. Nothing better than that.

Love y'all.

Don't Hate Me Because I'm Beautiful

(I wonder if really truly writers feel a buzz in their brain when a story is forming? A pre-story itch? I've had this going on again and so I must sit down to write before I lose the sensation, or at least get this started in order to scratch a little bit.)

It's about not being perfect and realizing it's okay to be so. To be so real and honest about imperfections that suddenly are badges of proof of a full life, pretty or not, which is in truth pretty darned special.

let me back up..... Most of my life I have dealt daily with not being enough. Not enough of anything really - not pretty enough, not short enough, not thin enough, not fast enough, not educated enough, not slow enough, not smart enough, not charming enough, not good enough, not brave enough,  not happy enough, not strong enough, not something enough. I've seen counselors, read self-help books, and struggled to feel like I met the expectations that came crashing down like thick gray waves, drowning who I really wanted to be. Me. Those waves, though. Grinding down and wearing thin the resolve of me-ness every day, and I couldn't swim up for the air of freedom, so went along with that tide of self-loss and disappointment knowing that I couldn't quite measure up to what I was 'supposed' to be. (Now don't get me started on the phrase 'you should....' Sets off a firestorm in my soul every time I hear it. That and 'you never...') Living year in and year out with that burden of lack has taken its toll.

A few years back, L'Oreal had a campaign with the very popular line 'Don't hate me because I'm beautiful' and everyone joked about it. But advertising goes in to our very core beliefs and wedges itself like a nanocancer, spreading into our minds and hearts and destroying our own self-worth if aren't ----enough. We look at ourselves in the mirror and we do not see the perfection of face and hair and makeup and body and clothes and house and car, and we begin to believe 'I am not whatever enough.' Some of our Pinterest projects do not turn out like the professionally styled projects do, our quilts don't have perfect corners and stitches, and our kids do not eat all their vegetables. We're not a size 2 or 10 or even a 14 and we don't drive a BMW. Our houses look lived in. And our manicures are not always fresh. Wow. It's heavy to carry around all of that, isn't it?

So here's my light-bulb moment. I have a perfect body. My body is BEAUTIFUL! I was getting ready for work one morning and caught a glimpse of my naked self in my full-length mirror and instead of groaning at the sight of myself, I stopped and looked at me. Just me. Fifty-eight, almost fifty-nine year old me. I weigh more than I should (there's that word and see how it makes me feel guilty instantly???) I have hair that's almost as much white as it is red. I have some wrinkles. I have lots of stretch marks and cellulite. I looked at my breasts, my stomach, my hips and thighs and arms and legs. My eyes and my ears and yes, my Plemons nose. I looked at my hands and my feet. I looked at what my body is; I did not look at any misconceptions and expectations of what it 'should' be, or what the advertisements make me wish it could be, and I realized, with all my imperfections, how amazing I am.

From the top of my head, white or red, down to my eyes that still work okay and do so even better with glasses, to my skin on my face which has withstood some significant pre-cancer treatment, to my ears that still hear birdsong and bee buzz and leaf rustle and music, to my teeth that are still chomping away, to my chin that is strong, to my neck which has the same creases that my mother's did, to my shoulders which are wide and sturdy, to my breasts which are losing some gravity but still I have them both - more than some of my dear friends can say. I fed six babies with them, and I am so grateful to have had that time with my babies. Continuing to my belly which is crisscrossed with stretch marks from carrying seven babies, three of whom weighed in at almost ten pounds or more, I earned every single scar and I would do it all again. So many women struggle to conceive and I was so blessed. I have had surgeries that have left scars on my belly and my knee, but my legs are strong and I can work hard. I've had surgery on my hand, and always thought I have big hands, and I'm so glad I do. My hands are not manicured anymore, they're freckled and a little bit beat up, but they can clean and cook and type and sew and hold my loved ones' hands quite well. My feet are a bit of a problem but I can walk.

When I finished with my inventory, there was another part of me that checked in as working efficiently. My tears. I looked at this beautiful woman in the mirror, with such a perfectly imperfect body, and I wept for the gifts I have been given and for the cocreation I shared with God. As this salt water trickled down my face, I felt waves of light and love and so much gratitude. I realized that 'enough' can have a different meaning to each and every person in our life, but the only person who gets to create the definition of your 'enough' is you. All those magazines and TV commercials and Pinterest posts and comparisons geared to make us feel like we are less, and also sometimes the people around us who put expectations out there that are so unhealthy, well, they are wrong. That's when the L'Oreal ad came to mind but I'd like to take the liberty to change it a little bit:

'Don't hate me because I'm beautiful;love yourself because you are beautiful too.'

PrairieDawn at almost two

Sometimes, I get a super lucky day to have a grandchild one on one, and a few weeks ago I got to watch PrairieDawn. Her family went swimming and she is still too small to enjoy being in the pool, and besides, Grammy's willing! 

I just heard a most wonderful thing about our PrairieDawn's name; a good friend and very spiritual teacher told me that she has an affirmation inspired by this sweet baby's name. 

My friend likes to start out her day by saying:

 'I will live my day so that it is as peaceful and beautiful as the prairie is at dawn.' 

We played with the doll house. She carried around her pink purse. She happily sat in the high chair watching while I baked cookies and even more happily sampled them for me. 

We  snuggled on the couch reading stories and practicing our animal sounds. She's pretty good at meowing. 

We practiced where our eyes are located and our noses. And fingers and toes.

And a movie about puppies was enthralling. 

Then while one of us was being such a very good girl, the other one of us decided to have a little photo shoot. The really good babygirl knows how to work it!

 

This was her 'oh Grammy's got the camera out' expression.

Then she went for her half smile~

And who can resist the sweet head cocked to the side? 

Then the playful 'I won't look directly at the camera.'

Now it's a serious thoughtful look~

Moving into 'yes I know I'm cute and snuggly'.

But Grammy's hands down favorite is this one. 

Our adorable grandbabygirl. 

Searching the Dusty Places

         Today I was standing in the checkout line at LifeSource, waiting to purchase my items for lunch. As I have been doing for months, I went through the card catalog in my brain searching for ‘that word.’ I had decided before I went to LifeSource that I would buy lunch and then come back and read the entire O section of the dictionary until I reacquainted myself with ‘that word’ again. Perhaps that was what finally triggered the ‘AHA!!’ moment as the friendly checker asked how my day was going? I was able to say to her ‘I’m extremely pleased right now because I just remembered a word I’ve been looking for for years!’ She gave me a paper and pen to write it down so I wouldn’t forget it again, but she never asked what it was. (I was a little disappointed that I didn’t get to share. )

In 1995, Madeleine L’Engle was the Writer In Residence for Victoria Magazine, to which I subscribed. That year was not a particularly easy one and I was grateful to find wisdom wherever I could, and if it came in a beautiful magazine, more the better. I remember the article well enough that I have looked for it for years; one of those things I should have never thrown away, alas. She wrote of being true to oneself but taking it that further step of actually becoming the entire self to which one would be entirely true. She referred to her book Circle of Life, and the section wherein a burning bush is described:

“The part of us that has to be burned away is something like the deadwood on the bush; it has to go, to be burned in the terrible fire of reality, until there is nothing left but . . . what we are meant to be.”

“Ontology: the word about the essence of things; the word about being.”

And there is ‘that word.’ When I look it up online now, apparently it has taken on a whole different computer-life, but I am referring to the more philosophical (bordering on metaphysical) definition as above. ‘Nothing left but what we are meant to be.’

This weekend, my sister-in-law gave me a remarkable little ring and pendant she made for me –and sometimes timing is surely serendipitous. The pieces are identical. Both are tiny compasses. And they’re not fancy brass or engraved, these are ‘just for fun’ compasses, but you know what? They work. They know True North. They know the way.

Yesterday I was asked if I could be true to two things at a time, one of those being myself and the other being part of a situation that may well burn away the deadwood of my soul. (And the compass needle spun in circles!)

 

Today, I am waiting for the red end of the needle to settle to True North, and to see a pathway through the embers that await me.

 

 I’m not sure I am spirit enough, strong enough, or sure enough to be able to safely navigate my way through without some pretty significant scorching, but if I start, there is no going back. As I contemplate this, the ‘zing’ of electrical shock goes through my arms and legs and makes my heart pound so hard I can hear it – stress zingers, born of fear.

 I am blessed to be tested.

 And believe that after the fire there is regrowth; after time, after healing, the flowers of the forest come to life and beauty once again. Ponderosa pinecones cannot release their seeds without going through a fire. I have my compasses to remind me of finding the way to my ontological being: the ‘who’ that is the credible one, borne of walking the way.

I found ‘that word’ again. It has haunted me and tickled the edges of my memory for years, elusively floating just beyond grasp. Why did I receive the compasses and why did I find ‘that word’ when I’ve been presented with another avenue of growth that asks almost more than I have to give? Sometimes timing is surely serendipitous~

 

The Grand Debut of Miss Lucy Ella

A Grand Entry

Last Friday on 8/10/12, Lucy Ella  decided to make her appearance in our world. She came a few days early, perhaps having overheard the decision to induce her mother’s labor, and didn’t really like that idea. So into our lives she came ‘trailing clouds of glory’ as Wordsworth eloquently describes a precious child’s arrival.

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,	60
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar:
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come	65
From God, who is our home:
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!

Her birth was the first I have attended, (and not played an active role in which was really nice!) Samantha was strong and in good spirits; Dustin was attentive to Samantha’s needs; the nurses were quietly efficient; the doctor was jolly yet calm. Mommy did an amazing job of giving birth to her nine pound six ounce daughter, and looked so beautiful afterwards – that ‘new mother’ glow is like none other.

Lucy was born into a relaxing atmosphere and she only yelled about the process for a few seconds after being fully birthed. She calmed right down when placed into her happy mother’s waiting arms, and there was such love flowing through the room – truly the clouds of love that swirled around her included all the joy of heaven, and a few little teary drops too. How could anyone witness the miracle of a birth and not feel the spirit emerge with the body, bursting into full life – the first cry is “I’m here! I’m really here!” 

Lucy is, thus far, a peaceful baby who can soothe herself with her own little thumb, and settles right down after guzzling a bit of a bottle and enjoying a nice snuggle. She wasn’t too happy about being weighed, measured, cleaned up, poked and prodded, although when left alone for just a few seconds, quieted down quickly.  As she was checked out by the nurses, her father was right next to her, keeping the bright light out of her eyes and softly reassuring her:  ‘Daddy’s right here, sweetie.’  During her checkup, the nurse chuckled that while listening to her heart and lungs, she could also hear Lucy’s little tummy growling! She was fed shortly after that and dozed off, safely in Daddy’s arms.

She has lovely, fluffy light brown hair, an adorable dimple in her chin and her Mommy’s cute dimple in her right cheek. And, she does a pretty good Elvis impersonation! All in all, Lucy Ella is one precious little girl in all her sweet little chubbiness and babybeauty.

I am humbled and honored that Dustin and Samantha allowed me to be there with them during an event so sacred, and I will always be grateful to them for sharing Lucy’s birth with me. And to darling sweet new Lucy, welcome love. You’re home now.

Finding the SilveryShiningWisp of Joy

Sometimes, things just don’t work out the way you think they’re going to, (like trying to add pictures to this post.!!!!!!! Frustration!!!!)and I have to say this holiday season was one of those times. No one is to blame, except for whomever it was that passed the stomach virus on to me,( although even that person was most likely innocent of their cruelty.) My head just spins with how far out of the path of normal holidays our holidays spun! In the midst of the maelstrom there were shining happy moments and it’s those that we need to remember.

Let’s see – when the girls and Spencer arrived, they knocked on the front door and then sang Jingle Bells to us. It was so wonderful to see them all and to get big hugs all around. What a great way to kick off our Polar Express party! Ephraim had come over one day to help me paint the train, and then Gideon helped another day. They had one little spat that blew over quickly, and then we had a fine time working to create our fun train. Simeon helped Grammy decorate train shaped cookies, and then snuggled with Poppy Mark to watch Prep and Landing.

The party was fun and very very busy – everyone came so the house was full, the table full of good food and good snacks. We learned that Simeon should not have large amounts of chocolate ‘pennies’; none of us had ever seen him quite so hyped. He was still cute as could be – just in high gear. PrairieDawn gave us the most laughs; she played with a little rocket and when it ‘shot’ Grammy, who of course reacted dramatically, Prairie belly laughed with glee. She eventually ‘shot’ it at everyone in the room and we laughed at her till we cried. Aunt Corie sent gifts for all the kiddos and they opened them at the party – Ephraim and Gideon were thrilled with their books, and they were tucked into couch corners for the rest of the evening, contentedly reading. Levi, Anna and Kash took the Polar Express movie pretty seriously, and Anna sat on Grammy’s lap for a good deal of the movie. Nice to snuggle up with a beautiful granddaughter in her lovely black velvet and plaid taffeta Christmas dress. Lucy attended in her party dress too, adorable girl she is.

Keeping the focus on the shiny spots: Christmas day while I was still upstairs, Mark had Christmas with his boys. It was nice for him to have some uninterrupted one on one time with them, and I was happy for them. The boys had a nice breakfast, opened presents, and then decided to get into the hot tub before taking off. For just a few minutes, they sang together and their voices drifted up my way, bringing some cheer which was gratefully appreciated.

Spencer and Michelle came back over to just hang out with us on the 26^th for a while. It was so nice to get a little bit of time to visit just with them. We had a really good visit.

Finally we got to have Christmas! Dinner was warm, house still sparkly and magical, presents waiting…so we began tearing in! Rescue Heroes! Pink cape! Gift certificates! Books! Beautiful window prisms! Plants in personalized pots! Window chalk! Bows and arrows! Movie tickets! Charming handmade sign! Tiny log house of balsam fir with incense smoke! Driftwood heart! We are a blessed and generous family. On to dinner, and then to movies for the littles, rocking baby to sleep; and visiting and laughter.

Amongst the shadows of illness and frustration, the shimmeringsilveryshiningstarseconds glowed and flowed through us and by us and around us. The dull gray walls of expectation gave way to lighteningbugflashes of joy.

It is not about the plans or the expectations; it’s all about the results, and if in the giving, we forget to look for the right result, then we need to reconsider the why. We just needed to open our eyes and see them, the will o’ the wisps of wonder.

Merry Christmas, whenever it is for you.

I Feel A Story Coming On About Thanksgiving and Giving Thanks

The last few nights, Mark and I have enjoyed watching ‘The Dust Bowl’ on PBS, and in an odd way, it makes me miss my parents; I think because the show is based in the decades of their youth. I hear some accents that sound familiar; some phrases that I grew up hearing, and I fondly recall that sense of home that feels so familiar, but is now so far away. While watching the program about the terribly ravaged areas in Oklahoma, Kansas, Texas and Colorado, my mind goes back to some of the stories about how my parents grew up, and how desperately hard it was for my grandparents to provide basic necessities for their families. One thing mentioned in the show was that the exodus to California was felt as an embarrassment because so many had suffered so greatly and could no longer meet their obligations, nor even put food on the table. Humbled and humiliated, they travelled West to find a place that was touted as a land of plenty, but the Depression travelled with them and had arrived in California before they did, so yes, it was a better place, but life was still hard.

My father’s ancestors were the mountain people of the Great Smoky Mountains in North Carolina and Tennessee, having migrated there via Virginia after living on the East Coast , some since the 1600s. They were English, escaping religious persecution; they were Scottish and Irish, escaping countries of hardship and unjust rule. They were all looking for a better life and came with the determination born of desperation. Work was life and life meant work. My father told me heart wrenching stories about my grandfather’s efforts to provide for his family of eleven children – sharecropping, logging, carpentry, farming, mill work. Hard physical labor that sometimes paid off, and sometimes, did not. He decided one time to grow a large crop of watermelons, believing that they would sell easily. Who doesn’t love a good melon when it’s hot outside? Depression Era shoppers might have wanted to enjoy one, but could not. He couldn’t sell them. He eventually backed his wagon up to a steep hillside and threw them over. All of them. He used a mule to farm the land he rented as a tenant farmer. His axe was a precious tool to him and it was well cared for. (His Irish temper flared if that blade ever touched the ground.) The family picked cotton, even the younger children. I try to imagine my father as a young boy, dragging the cotton sack behind his slim frame, pulling the bolls off the plants. It makes me want to weep for what he and his siblings had to do just to live. Just to have food.

 

 The Plemons Boys: Tom, Gene and Wally

 

 It was in 1937 when Grandpa packed up the family and joined the long lines of cars driving West. They settled in the very northeast corner of California where there was logging and road building work for him, and it was a good place to settle the children who were still in the home.

My mother’s family lived in southern Missouri, also having migrated from the Carolinas: Scottish, Irish and German. My great grandfather farmed, surveyed, and went back to school to become a teacher, inspiring several of his children to do the same. His wife, my great grandmother, had lost her mother at age 12 and had been ‘farmed out’ to other relatives and neighbors until she married and then had twelve children of her own.

Matilda Condray Sutherlin, my Great Grandmother

My grandmother, their oldest child, believed in education and stressed the importance of it to her children, although her own education was limited because of the losses in her life. She wed at 18 to a handsome widower with three children. She then had five children of her own, three girls and two little redheaded boys. One little boy died as an infant and the other died at age four, due to the influenza. My grandfather was working in Oklahoma at the time and was so ill, he could not travel quickly enough to be there even for the funeral of his little son. Grandpa had tuberculosis, and he passed away when my mother was about 16 months old. They had moved to St. Louis, so Grandma was not near her parents for support and had to fend for her little family by herself. She worked in a laundry; she ironed clothes all day long. The family received assistance because she simply could not make ends meet; my mother remembered beans and beans and more beans for supper. My grandmother remarried in a short time and had another              daughter and another redheaded son. Georgie, her last little boy, was born with Down’s syndrome and passed away when he was seven or eight. Years later when my brother was born with a head of curly red hair, she wept.

I can’t help but be humbled when I reflect on the lives of those from whom I descend. Our home is a mansion. We flip a switch for heat; we turn a faucet for hot water - we have indoor plumbing! We only split wood to build a fire for ambiance and cozy atmosphere, and I think of my grandfather’s axe… If I’m not too good at splitting a piece of wood, I wonder what he would think of me. We have electricity and an iron that just needs to be turned on to heat; not set upon a hot stove fueled by coal. Every single time I iron clothes, I remember Grandma’s instructions – “Don’t run the iron backwards, it will make wrinkles. Iron the collar first and then the sleeves and then the body of the garment. Don’t melt the buttons.” If anyone knew how to do it right, it was she who spent hours and hours at it.

I can recall Thanksgiving celebrations at my Uncle Wally’s place in Ravendale, California, with many of my father’s family members there. We ate a wonderful meal and after dinner, pushed back the furniture to dance, and we laughed. As an innocent child, I thought it was just a fun holiday spent with cousins and aunts and uncles and grandparents. I thought it was about the Pilgrims and turkeys and pumpkin pies that Mama made so well. I thought it was about the long car ride and playing games with my brothers and singing ‘Over the River and Through the Woods.’

The Plemons Family: Steve, Viola, Tom, Janet and Doug

1977

 

I was right. And I was wrong. The deeper meaning of the day is about giving thanks for those who walked before us, clearing the path by swinging an axe. For those who spent each day with sacrifice etched into their souls, pushing through heartbreak and never ever giving in to it. For the woman who taught me that the right way to do a task sometimes has only one way.

 

We will honor Thanksgiving with turkey and pie and cranberry sauce, and the family will gather to share in a day of feasting and celebration. I am immensely grateful that my own children and grandchildren will be there, and in each of their faces, there are glimpses of those others who have given us the better life for which they worked. Quietly, I will search for a moment when I can remember all of them who came before, and I will give thanks. I am proud of them, so very proud. This year, and every day, there is much to be thankful for.

Blessings to all.

Finding the PX Ranch and Saying Hello/Goodbye - An Adventure That Begins and Ends with Dreams

This weekend had a somber purpose - to attend the memorial service of an old friend of Mark's at Southern Oregon University. She had been a professor there, Wilkins O'Riley Zinn by name, and the developer of collectory's and being Zinnified, and her 'somber' service was called a 'Sillybration' because it was dotted, literally, with polka dots and brilliantly colored artwork, which she had created. Attendees wore bright ties and sparkly headwear and purple plush hats ,and animal crackers were on every table for munchies during the service. Tears, yes. Laughter, lots. Anguish, plenty. Joy, immeasurable. She could never imagine the difference she had made in so many lives. Amidst all the funny stories and all the sweet memories, the one that stood out for me the most (outside of Mark's which made me cry because he said 'I was her first student - in life'); more than her son who wept frequently over the loss of his best friend; more than the colleagues who will miss her zest and inspiration; even more than her husband who has lost his soulmate of 38 years - most was the young woman who spoke last. She spoke of Z as the person who influenced her 'to move forward confidently in the direction of your dreams', (I borrow from the Desiderata, but it completely fits); who told her to write her Master's dissertation because she knew that Z would read it; who connected with her intellectually and emotionally and mentally - not on a lighthearted level at all. In all the flit and float, there was a serious grounding - a touchpoint that mattered and changed a life, immensely giving permission to BE and to DO. That moved me more than I could breathe. I so wish I had known this remarkable woman. Godspeed, Z. You inspire me.

And then---my husband and I got to have a weekend away. We had spent the night on Friday in Grants Pass in a dive-ish sort of motel called the Sweet Breeze. Not so sweet! Some people don't really be honest on travel sites, just so ya know. It was doable for one night, but one night was it! Anyhow, we hit the road early to head to Ashland for the services and meandered on our way there. Took some back roads and tried to go to the House of Mystery/ Oregon Vortex, but didn't have enough time for the tour. I was SO looking forward to shrinking for a while, but unlike Alice inWowland, couldn't muster it up on this trip.  Because my sweet husband, who in his haste to leave on Friday afternoon, forgot his dress clothes.... we made a quick couple of stops to purchase a spiffy new set of appropriate clothes for him on the way and then headed to Ashland.

Ashland delights me. I'm sensitive to the ambiance of towns, and also the temperature of towns, and the tidyness level. I.e.~ Victoria Canada wins a good prize. Most of Nevada does not.  I find Ashland to be especially pretty, albeit it only gets a b- because it's pretty toasty there.

As we headed East, we chose to drive the Ashland - KFalls highway which is twisty to say the least. I have now created a new verse to the "Long and Winding Road" for the Beatles. It is the 'Narrow Winding Road'~, but that's for later.  Anyhow the highway was breathtaking in more ways than one. First, because the sun was lowering in the western sky sending amber light to create an afternoon golden glow over the very steep mountains upon which the highway barely ekes out a perch. Barely. On the steep sides of high mountains. Clings. The pictures do not do the steeeeeeepness justice at all! And just because there's a guard rail in one of these pictures, do not think that there were guard rails on the whole road, because there were not. And I was in the passenger's side looking over the edge trying not to swallow my tongue in panic!

 

 

There was this one spot where the road had broken off and they patched it, but then painted the patched spots so us weary travellers could freak out thinking that it would break again as we drove over it. Or not. But it was kind of scary.

 

 

So, whew! We made it past the twisty freaky parts of this incredibly gorgeous drive and there was a light shining on the top of a hillside, beckoning us to stop for succor. And so we did. And it brought back great memories of my youth!

 

No Annie's in sight, but it truly was a nice place for nacho's and a beer.

 

And as we left, our personal fareweller, Bambi, came out onto the road to say 'Farewell, weary traveller!' into the glaring headlights.

 

Moving on, we drove through the beautiful night and country on to Klamath Falls, where we spent the night in a lovely motel, the Cimarron. Loved it. Clean and nice, except for no coffee cups, easily remedied fix... Up and out the door early this morning on our quest.

 

The Quest:

To find the ranch my father and his brothers owned in the 60s and 70s, which I had not visited for a long long long time. All I recall is driving to Beatty and eventually turning left over a slight rise and then dropping down into the yard. Mark had called my brother who spent summers there as a teenager and got some directions, but in the midst of hubbub couldn't quite recall all the road names, so we did some extra driving. We ended up in Bly and didn't mind at all. Bly is kind of charming, in a very remote kind of way, with a couple of little markets and even two or three antique stores. (Much to my dismay, they weren't open today!)

 

This is the sweet little Forest Service Building in Bly.

And this is in the city park. Awesome!

So, we weren't supposed to have gone as far as Bly, and we turned around to head back to Beatty.

I love the lines and circles~


We had were loving everything we saw and I was snapping pictures as fast as I could, and then.... there was this. I happen to really love green. This made me teary.

 

 

 

And on yet another lonesome gravel road, there was a burst of color~

 

A kaleidoscope of brush in bloom~ a gift. Such beauty, which in the eye of this beholder, was indeed considered so.

We realized we needed to try another tack, not sailing but turning, so we turned left on Drews Road. And there it was, just over a rise, on the left just where we'd left it.

 

The view from the PX Ranch across the Sycan Valley~

 

The PX Ranch, for Plemons 10 - a legacy of unfinished dreams during which we can smell the sage and juniper and cows and freshcut alfalfa. Why we love boots and sometimes good country music and being a little rough around the citified edges and why we are... because it's okay to remember the days when our father really was a cowboy, and so were my brothers. Remembering the smoke of the branding iron fires and the bawl of the freshly branded calves who wore the PX; remembering my uncle's white cowboy hat and plaid cowboy shirts with Marlboro's (for reals) rolled up in his sleeves. My Uncle Gene was a quintessential cowboy, handsome and sunburnt and tough as nails, but never too tough to tease with a niece who thought he was about the neatest guy ever. My Uncle Wally was a big man, another cowboy through and through, but far more gentle around impressionable little girls.

My big brother Doug had a horse named Rip who wouldn't be gentled and had to be broke over and over again. My brother Steve, a quieter sort of cowboy, made everyone's day lighter as he joked his way through the work on a ranch; hard work for a young teenager. Turns out he and Doug both had terrible grass allergies but they bucked hay for several a summer.

We are who we are, in part because of the men who owned this place. My brothers, my cousins and me because our fathers put themselves and their sweat into being their dream, not just saying they had one.

As I write this, I am struggling. How brave they were. What a chance they all took. The year the river flooded at Christmas and threatened to take it all, they left families at home and went to the ranch working  days to save everything to keep this alive.

I never understood until just now.  They were their dream, and I got to be a part of it. I owned a part of the Plemons Ten. For the example of my dad and my uncles, all gone now, I am grateful.  I hope my brother Doug and my cousins - Judy, Wally, Roger, Concha, Lupe, Will and Amy, and I will always remember to be the dream they have and 'to move forward confidently in the direction of your dreams', as our fathers did before us.  

The view from the PX Ranch.