OOPSY DAISY

Everyone makes mistakes. Some of us more than others. I fall into that category.

It's not that I do it on purpose. The mistakes just seem to happen. And, I admit, I've had more than my fair share. Is it because my brain disconnects? Something more sinister?

I hope that this does not offend anyone. I don't mean for it to. This really did happen and it really was just a mistake. And I felt really bad when I found out I had made the mistake. . . though, it IS funny.

Anyway, this happened years and years ago. I and my girlfriend, who is Catholic, were invited to go to a Christmas Eve midnight mass by my best friend. Since I had never been to one, I thought it would be neat to see one. Kathi went, too. As we walked through the parking lot, my friend and I were smoking. He finished before I did, and flicked the butt out in front of us then stepped on it to put it out.

I, on the other hand, was still smoking as we went through the parking lot. As we approached the doors, I was almost finished with my cigarette. As we came up the steps, I saw what I thought were ashtrays mounted to the walls by the doors. I put my cigarette out in one, and it made a hiss. I asked, "Who put water in the ash trays?!!!"

From the reaction I got, you would have thought that I had shot the pope or something! I was told that they are NOT ashtrays, they are holy water. Well, Kathi (who is not Catholic) laughed. She was the only one. . .

Geez, how was I suppose to know!?

Well, after getting reamed out by my best friend and my date, things kinda went downhill from there. My friend and my date would not let me and Kathi set next to each other, 'cause Kathi kept on giggling.

During the service, an alter boy accidentally set one of the poinsettia's on fire with the thingy he was supposed to light candles with. Then the incense stuff they burned made me have a sneezing fit. And it smelled like old rags to me. And what was up with this stand-up-set-down-stand-up-kneel-down-set-down-stand-up thing. It could be an Olympic event! Going to Catholic church can be a real work out.

When I was a kid, when we went to church, people talked to one another, until it was time to start the service. In the Catholic church, it is really quiet. This was a learning experience for me. And the church was really beautiful. I did enjoy the service. But, I still caught all kinds of grief after the service.

I was never invited to go to another service.

Then again, maybe it had something to do with my rubbing ash off of my girlfriend's forehead one time. She hollered something about Ash Wednesday or something like that, as she stormed out of the Denny's restaurant.

THE LITTLE CHURCH ON THE HILL

The other day, while Kathi was at work, I was in our garage. I was attempting to make extra room for some things that Mom gave us after the yard sale. As I moved things around and found space for other things, I came across the old G.I. pack that my Dad had given me when I was about 10 or so. It is still useable. It's ratty, tattered in spots, stained, and faded. It has been just about everywhere here in Colorado.

When I picked it up, it felt a bit heavy. I haven't used it in about 20 some years. I opened it up and it was still loaded up with some of my hunting, camping, and fishing gear. It even had a pair of my old jeans, socks, and spare shirt. 'Course, the pants are WAY too small now, as is the shirt. As I dug deeper, I came across the old Western hunting knife that my Dad had given me when he gave me the pack. The pack also had my old mess kit, with silverware, and my old skillet.

There were other things in the pack also. A old fishing creel, some fishing line, still on the spool. Some fish hooks and sinkers. Other things that one might need while out and about. As I looked at all of these things -- and I don't really know why -- it made me think back to a trip I made many years ago. It was 1976 or '77. I was living with my grandparents then.

I had decided to make a trip up into the mountains, but wanted to see some new country. So I decided to head towards Glenwood Springs, find a back road, and see where it would take me. I loaded up my old Blazer with gear, threw in my backpack and my dog Jessie, and away we went.

After making it through Glenwood Canyon, I found a road that went up and over the top. We ended up above the town of Glenwood Springs. So we pushed on further into the back country.

After several hours, we found a real good spot to camp. We set up the tent and made the camp comfy. Jessie was having a ball, running, jumping, and scoping out all the different smells, when all of a sudden she took off after a rabbit. It didn't take her long before she had the rabbit and brought it back to camp. The rabbit was dead, 'cause she had broken its back. She did this quite often on our little trips. She was also pretty good at getting fish also. I cleaned the rabbit, and we had him for supper that evening.

The next day, we were up bright and early. The sun was just barely coming over the top of the mountain. It was not really cold out, but it was one of them mornings where you can see your breath. It was just cool enough that you'd want a jacket, but you know that as soon as the sun gets up past the top of the mountain that it is going to warm up pretty fast. We ate a quick breakfast of cereal and a few dog biscuits and we were off. We walked and took our time. We found a nice stream to fish on and we would do that later on that day.

We came across a old road, if you can call it that. You could see that it had not been used in a lot of years. Trees had grown along the road. The trees on the outside of the road were taller than the trees in the road. We followed the little road for a long ways when we broke out into this clearing.

Setting at the top of this hill in the clearing was a little church. The front was still there, with the steeple and cross on top. The roof was long gone, and the back wall and a side wall had toppled over.

There didn't seem to be any other buildings around. The clearing was alive with wild flowers, green grass and you could hear some bees hard at work. As we got up to the old church, I turned around and then I could see where the other buildings had been. It looked like it had had about six or seven other buildings at one time or another. The doors to the church were long gone. As we stepped into that church, there were the most beautiful purple flowers where the floor should have been. They were all taller than the flowers out side of the church. Jessie laid down at the doorway and wouldn't go further into the church. I also just stood there.

I had never seen anything like it before and I have not seen anything like it since. It seemed that the sun was shinning more brightly in the church, that it was outside of it. It was so quiet and peaceful. Jessie and I sat there in the doorway of that church for what seemed like hours. The light smell of the flowers surrounded us. I wondered why just the church remained and the other buildings were gone.

After what seemed like a big chunk of the day had passed, we got up to head back to our camp. As we were getting off the porch of the church, I decided to pick some of the flowers on our way back. All of a sudden Jessie started to bark. She ran towards the backside of the church. I hollered at her and followed her around back. I was stunned to see an old graveyard about 30 yards back.

It was surrounded by fence, and where the gate should of been was wide open. I don't know how many graves there were. One stood out from the rest. It had roses . Bright red roses, mixed in with all of these other wildflowers of blue, white, yellow, orange, and purple. I don't know how, but there they were. I tried to read the marker, but it was too worn. The only name I could figure out was John.

We stood there for a bit. I was wishing that I had a camera. It seems that whenever I think to bring one, I never have anything to take a picture of. And when I don't have a camera, I always have something that I wish that I could take some pictures of! (Soon after this trip I had a Kodak Disc camera. I wore it out.)

Jessie and I left, and made our way back to camp. I fished. We sat around camp and made a few more treks around the area. It was soon time to head back home.

I told my grandparents all about our camping trip and how I had even stopped in Glenwood to see if I could find out anything about the little church. Nobody seemed to know, until I stopped to get gas for the return trip home. The guy running the station, was quite a bit older than the other people I had been talking to. I asked him about the little church. He smiled and said that his Dad had been a logger, and that there had been a permanent saw mill camp up there so many years ago that they decided that they needed a church.

The camp ran for about 10 years or so, or until all the available timber was gone for several miles around. They closed up shop, moved the saw mill. Just a few people stayed there over the years. It finally became a "ghost town" back in the 1940's. The grave with the roses was from the last person there, who passed from freezing one winter. The roses are believed to be from a family member who planted them there.

The years have come and gone. It took me about 15 years before I could get back up to that little church on the hill. The trees have grown over what was once the remains of the road. The hill is still covered by all of those colorful wild flowers. And now a few pine trees are growing there. The last time I was there without Jessie, who had passed on herself by then, the remains of the little church were gone. The little graveyard fence is still there, but the markers are gone. The only thing that I could find was a dead rose bush.

A lot of years have passed since that trip. I'm going to use that old pack again this summer. I can't go to a lot of the places where I used to hike, hunt, fish, and camp. They no longer exist or are now owned by some city slicker. And I just can't hoof them hills like I used too. Plus, I'm not all that great at sleeping on the ground any more.

I've done a lot of living in the mountains. As far as hunting, camping, fishing and being on my aunt's and uncle's ranch as a child, I've seen and learned all kinds of things. I wish now, more than ever, that I would have had a camera. There hasn't been a time that Kathi and I have been on a trip up in the hills that I haven't told her a story of being there or doing something in the area we are in.

How many campfires can you have in a lifetime? And how many little churches are there still on the hill?

WHAT HAPPENED TO THE SAUCER?

As I was having my second cup of coffee, I wondered whatever happened to the saucer? It used to be that if you had a cup of coffee it was served on a saucer. And we don't really use a cup any more -- it is more like a mug.

If you go out to eat and order coffee, it comes in this "cup" that looks more like a little mug. I mean, I don't mind. . . it holds more than a cup, more like a cup and a half. But, as a child, I remember adults having coffee and it was served on a saucer. It seemed sorta classy. And it kept the coffee confined to the saucer if you slopped a bit out of the cup. Plus, it was a place to put a spoon if you like cream or sugar in your coffee.

I remember a grandfather, from my Dad's second marriage, who had coffee with every meal. He would pour some of his coffee into the saucer and let it cool a bit before he would drink it from the saucer. It didn't seem like bad manners. It was just something he did, like eating peas from his knife. There was always a saucer for coffee and hot tea.

If you went out anywhere to eat and ordered coffee, you got your coffee in a cup with a saucer. It was easier to carry. No burnt fingers. My sister has about a million teacups with saucers. They all are pretty and dainty, and she never ever uses them. They just set in a display case. Some are worth money. But the everyday cup and saucer? We hardly see them at all these days.

Maybe it's because of when we started to see flying saucers. They decided to do away with the cup and saucer and just have this mug thing instead. I have a few of my great grandmother's cups with saucers. They, too, set in a cupboard. I get them out every now and then. Maybe for a cup of hot chocolate on a wintery night. Or for a cup of real percolated coffee, and I think back to when families still sat around a table to eat, drink, converse, and be a real family.

I've found a place to eat that serves your coffee cup on a saucer. The cup is a little over sized, like a mug. It's good coffee. And the food is like moms used to make, when we were kids. I can close my eyes, smell the coffee, listen to the voices around me, and the tinkle of the spoon against a cup, and I am transported back to my childhood to a time that brings memories of family setting at the kitchen table, laughing, talking, and drinking their coffee. I hear the sound of a cup being placed back on it's saucer, and the room smelling of fresh perked coffee.

Maybe it's time to bring back the cup and saucer!

THE MOVE IS ON

The last two days have been busy. Kathi had two days off from work. And instead of us spending it together, she was good enough to go with me to Mom's house and we spent the time packing up things from her house so she can move closer to family. Kathi helped pack up old quilts and other household things. I worked in the garage.

Man! I never realized all the "stuff " my Dad had. I mean, I know that he had tools and yard stuff. But how many sets of wrenches does a guy need? And what's up with all these pieces of wood? There are sticks, lumber, two by fours, plywood in different shapes and sizes, planks, chunks, slivers, and saw dust that he keep putting in bags. Now, what is a Ziplock sandwich bag full of saw dust being saved for? Well, fire starter, maybe.

And cardboard! Lots and lots of cardboard.

Fishing poles. I counted six that work and are whole, another 12 that are broken to the point that you can't even make them into pocket fishing poles.

One real good find -- well, he found it. Anyone need a kerosene stove with oven? Tanks and everything you need to set it up. He and his friend "saved it " from an old trailer and hauled it to their house when they lived in Arkansas.

How about some Coleman fuel cans? I've found about 15 of those. Some with about a cup of fuel, others completely full and never opened.

And garden tools. He has an old wooden barrel stuffed with them -- I mean, stuffed to the point that it is about to bust at the seams.

Oh yeah, and hand saws. We got a whole box of them also. Like 20 of 'em. Maybe he had a saw fetish. Mom about had a fit when I told her about all them saws.

We got enough done so you now can walk around the car in the garage without getting grabbed by a saw, or a stick, or a 2x4.

Kathi got lots done in the house. So, we are getting closer for Mom to move. Mom keeps saying that she is going to chew Dad's butt when she sees him again.

My Dad, on the other hand, is probably up there fishing, and camping, and hunting, and looking down here every now and then with that grin of his, winking at friends and relatives up there with him.

I'm just waiting for her to find that one item in the house that will make Mom, stop, look, cry, and put that smile on her face that my Dad always would talk about.

She will say, just like a hundred times before, "Dammit, Jim!" And then she would just laugh.
So, she is doing better and working towards moving on.

And I, well let's just say, the more of his " stuff " I go through the more I feel connected to him through those things, and they bring memories. . . lots and lots of memories. . . flooding back.

I'm finding that those memories will last way longer than, say, the material things.

If I kept all those things, I would have to have another house just to store them in. Or to show them off.

Material things will, one day, rust or break and turn to dust, just as we all will also. So, I'm going with the memories. They will last forever.

So, share your memories. It's like living forever with family and friends.

DON'T MESS WITH GRAN'MA

We all have loved our grandmas. Some are great cooks. Some can sew and knit. And some, like my great grandma, can do all of those things and more. Her name was Pearl, but we all called her Mama. She married at a young age. Her husband, my great grandpa, was a farmer. His name was Luna, but we all called him Papa. They had a farm in Missouri for many years, before moving here to Colorado.

Papa was about 5'5". Mama was about 5 foot, or maybe a bit shorter. They were wonderful grandparents. They spoiled the you-know-what out of me and my sister. They had a tiny house in the town of Kremmling, with a small frontyard and the backyard was somewhat bigger, with the original homestead cabin. On one side of the cabin, Mama had her garden -- some potatoes, onions, carrots, squash, pumpkins, and a chokecherry bush.

She was really proud of her little garden. My sister and I were happy to help her in the garden. The one thing that really set her off was critters in her garden! Even if it was the cat from down the street, YOU DON'T MESS WITH THE GARDEN! My sister and I got spanked a few times for going into the garden. All we had done was take a carrot or two!

Well, one summer, my sister and I were staying with Mama and Papa. We were waiting to go out to the ranch that our aunt and uncle owned. To pass the time, that trip, I brought along my slingshot. I was pretty good! I could hit a can about every third shot or so. Well, as long as it was a good sized can. Like a number 10 can. And my sister was just about as good a shot as me. That is, when she could take my slingshot away from me.

So, there we were, setting on the back steps, me shooting my sling shot. My sister was wanting to take her turn. I used rocks as ammo. But! -- had just figured out that marbles worked SO much better than the rocks.

We must have shot over a 100 marbles that day. Not a single can or bottle in the neighborhood was safe from us. Mama came out to see what all we were doing and to find out why she didn't have any cans to put grease in.

As she came out the door, she said a dirty word, grabbed my slingshot out of my hands, loaded a marble in it, pulled back, and let it fly! My sister and I had no idea of what in the world she was
shooting at, let alone that she even knew how to use a sling shot.

After she made her first shot, she grabbed another marble and let it fly. We watched as she ran back into the house, then came out with a butcher knife and a big bowl.

She then started towards her little garden as fast as her little legs would carry her. Now, we had never seen Mama run before, and it was quite the sight: butcher knife raised up in one hand and that big old bowl in the other. Her hair net sliding off of her head, her apron sliding down around her hips, one stocking down around an ankle. And this kind of wild look on her face! She ran off around the old cabin to her garden, muttering under her breath about them brazzen little bast***s.

We ran after Mama and caught up with her as she reached her garden. Lying in the garden were two of the biggest rabbits I had ever seen, both of them flat-out dead, one with a parcel piece of carrot in its mouth.

Mama looked at us and said "Rabbit for dinner tonight!" My sister and I just stood there looking at her and them two rabbits. She laughed and said, "Close your mouths -- you're catching flies." We followed her back into the house, never saying a word. We watched as she dressed out the rabbits. We stayed in the house the rest of the day. My sister and I didn't really talk, or do anything. We just kind of sat there and watched Mama.

Later, Papa came home from work. He cleaned himself up and we all sat at the supper table, still watching Mama. Our plates were full, then Papa said grace and they began to eat. My sister and I, on the other hand, just sat and stared at Mama. Papa looked at us, asked if we were hungry, and -- if we were -- why were we not eating.

My sister and I both started to talk at the same time about how Mama had shot TWO rabbits with my slingshot.

Papa started to laugh, and Mama kind of turned red in the face and asked, "Haven't you two ever seen a grown up shoot a slingshot before?" We answered that we had, but we had NEVER seen a grandma shoot one before.

Well that was the wrong thing to say. Her face became even redder, and she kind of puffed herself up. She told us that she grew up shooting a slingshot, and that she helped her dad put food on the table when she was a little girl. She then got up and left the table.

Papa just sat there and tried to keep from laughing more. He told us that he was married to her for over two years before he found out that she was such a marksman with a slingshot. He said he came in one day from plowing and was washing up on the back porch when she came around the corner from the chicken coop carrying a dead raccoon. She had the coon in one hand and a slingshot in the other. He asked her what in the world she was doing, and she said that she was saving the chickens and wanted to know if he liked raccoon.

He told her NO, he didn't want any 'coon. Then he asked where she got that slingshot! She told him she made it herself, and that she and her brother used to make them all the time. Papa said he never knew that she could shoot like that. He had a old single shot .22, but she wouldn't touch it.

My sister and I just sat there, fascinated, and listened to Papa. He told about her chasing some fellow off the front yard with her slingshot. She nailed him several times in the butt. Papa found out later that the fellow she chased off was running for some office, and was making the rounds to get support for himself. Papa said the guy won his race, but never came to their place again.

The next morning, my sister and I got up, ate breakfast, and headed right outside. Mama was on the quiet side and sat there drinking her coffee. After we had been playing for a couple of hours, Mama came outside. She had a slingshot in her hand. It was old, you could tell. And it was a thing to behold. It was shinny, from years of being in someone's hand. You could see the grain of the wood. And it was bigger than my store bought sling shot. Hers had a bigger pouch to hold rocks and such. She had a leather bag in her other hand.

The bands on hers were flat, while mine was the round tube type of band. In that leather bag she had what looked like white and brown marbles. They were the roundest rocks I had ever seen, and some were real marbles. The white and brown ones were handmade marbles from clay. The round rocks, she got from a stream many years ago when she was a child.

Mama sat on the steps with us and we all took turns shooting at cans. She would shoot a tuna can standing on edge from about 20 feet or so, and hit it two more times before it stopped rolling and fell over. AND she could hit a bottle or can tossed up in the air! It was a great afternoon.

We never did make it out to the ranch. We were too busy with Mama, shooting our slingshots. When Papa made it home, he sat and shot also. He couldn't hit anything. But it was fun just the same.

When Mama went in to start supper, my sister and I sat out with Papa, had a Coke, and just kind of sat there. Papa laughed and said, "You know, I'd hate to really make that women mad. The way she can shoot that slingshot, I bet you couldn't get to the end of the street without her peppering your behind a dozen times."

As he got up, he said "Yep. . . don't mess with grandma."

Mama and Papa have long since passed. The memories of them and time spent are still with me and my sister. And that leather bag and slingshot of hers? Well, the last time I saw it, it was in her casket at the viewing, placed there by Papa.

REMEMBER WHEN

This story was posted sometime last year. I am posting it now because of a request from a few of my blog followers. For those of you who have already read this, I hope that you don't mind reading it again (if you want). So, enjoy.

How long has it been since you flew a kite? Remember when kites were homemade? Store bought ones flew just as good as homemade ones and on windy spring days, kites just seemed to appear in the sky.

You would bug your parents for a kite or to help you build one. I remember my Dad making me a kite out of The Denver Post. I helped by handing him scissors, paste, and string. The wood for the kite came from our garage, and the tail was supplied by my grandmother. It only took my Dad about half an hour and we had a kite to fly.

Once outside, he would unwind the string and walk backwards up our street. I would stand there and hold the kite gently. When my Dad gave the word, I would toss the kite above my head, and duck. The first couple of times, we couldn't get it off the ground. Some of the other kids would tell him he had to run faster. 'Course, this always made him a bit ticked off, but it did seem that he would run a bit faster each time.

After what seemed like weeks, my Dad would finally get the kite up in the air. He would tug the string a bit, let out more string, and tug it again. Now, there I was, standing by, waiting to fly MY kite. He would always say "just a minute." Well, the minutes would go by and we both would watch MY kite float along on the wind.

Pretty soon, he would be almost out of string, and the kite was way, way, way, up there. It seemed like it was higher and further than any of the other kites. He would holler at me to go in the house and get another roll of string.

Well, we had taken one spool of string from grandmother when we first made the kite, so we just used it for the flying of it. But now Dad wanted more string. So I went in to get more string. Pappy was sitting on the front porch as I ran into the house. As I came out with a big spool of string, Pappy stopped me in my tracks. I had taken grandmother's twine for wrapping packages. Pappy told me that I shouldn't use it. I told him it was all I could find, and I ran off towards my Dad.

Pappy never said another word, just sat there with his pipe in his mouth, puffing away. As I got to my Dad, he had about a foot of string in his hand. I handed him the spool of twine. And I finally got to fly MY kite, for all of maybe one minute. He tied the twine to the remainder of the string, and took back control of the kite. Now we had kids watching as he started to let out the twine. Nobody had ever done this on our street before. One spool of string to a kite was the norm. 'Course, they didn't know my Dad -- over-achiever, I guess, and he let out just about that whole spool of twine.

MY kite was almost out of sight! I mean, you could barley even see it in the sky! The only way we knew where it was was by the tail of our kite. Grandmother had shredded Pappy's union suit into rags, and MY kite was adorned with a red tail, about 4 feet long. Needless to say, it stuck out pretty well. (For those of you who do not know what a union suit is, it is long handled underwear for men, you know, the kind with the flap in the back.)

Well, the kite was real high in the sky, and just a little dot, except for its tail. The other kids were just opened-mouthed about how far it went and how much string has been let out.

Then all of a sudden the wind changed, and the kite started to drop. We knew, because the tail was now at the top. My Dad started to pull on the string, and tug, and run up the street a ways. He started to reel in the string. He reeled and reeled, and tugged and pulled on the string. And reeled some more. He reeled it in so fast that he started to miss the spool and had a big wad of string around his hand. He kept on reeling, and soon was getting red in the face.

Pappy was standing up, and looking off towards the kite. It was getting lower in the sky, and my Dad reeled in the string like a man on a mission. By then you couldn't see the spool in his hand because string covered his hand. It almost looked like one of the oblong bee's nests you see every now and then. Then Pappy was on the stairs of the porch, and his hands were moving like he was reeling in the string! The kids were telling my Dad to reel faster!

I was just standing there, watching my Dad and Pappy. Then Pappy was off the porch and hollering at my Dad to reel faster, and the kids were hollering to reel faster, and My Dad had this funny look on his face like he was mad, but just can't seem to keep a straight face, and he started to laugh.

We lost MY homemade kite that day. The kids talked about it until about the middle of summer. We never did get all the string and twine back. It was tangled and I spent I don't know how long trying to untangle it. My Dad had a hard time getting it off of his hand. I never got a piece any longer than about 2 feet.

Pappy went back to setting on the porch. Grandmother chewed us out for using her good twine. And my Dad felt so bad about the whole thing that he went out and bought me AND my sister store bought kites. He helped us put them together, but never offered to come out and help us fly them.

We did find our kite though. It ended up on the utility wires on Colfax, across the street from the Casa Bonita Mexican restaurant. I had just happened to look up and there it was, tangled up, hanging upside down, the red tail was fluttering in the wind. I pointed it out to Pappy. He chomped down on his pipe, his face turned red, and he said that that damn union suit got more miles on it now then when he wore them. Then he smiled.

You know, I just may buy me a kite and wait for the wind to be j-u-s-t right.

What Bears Do in the Woods

I think that just about everybody has seen a bear in his or her lifetime, whether it was on television, at the zoo, or maybe in the wild. And for those who have seen them in the wild, my hat is off to you.

Bears are really cool to watch. . . from a distance. Sometimes it is up close and personal.

And when it gets personal, who knows how it is going to go or how it will end!

We all have heard or read about bear contacts with people. And so, now it is my turn. No bears were hurt in this story...

The summer of 1977 found me up in the mountains here in Colorado. I had decided to forego my job and take a little vacation. So I packed up my camping gear and fishing pole. I loaded up my Chevelle, said goodbye to Grandmother and Pappy [I was living with them at the time] and headed up the highway towards Kremmling (Colorado).

After driving to Kremmling, I stopped and talked to my Uncle Fay, who was then running a store. I asked Uncle Fay how things were going, and he said that things were kind of tight right now and that he needed to get away for a day or two. So I invited him to go camping and fishing with me. He said that was a good idea, but that he would have to meet me up at my camp.

I told him I was going up on the Gore, by the cabin that was called the Mac. He said, "Great, I'll see you up there."

So I got up to where I wanted, pitched camp in the perfect spot -- lots of aspen trees -- and made myself at home. It was time to do some fishing. So, down the trail I went.

It was maybe a quarter of a mile or less to the beaver ponds that I liked to fish. I still bring friends there to fish and camp all these years later.

The fishing was great! I'd caught three or four brook trout, enough for a meal, when I heard what sounded like several people screaming and fighting. So I started to follow the sound. The farther I walked back up the trail, the louder the screaming got, and it was starting to really get to me. Of course, by then my imagination was starting to take over. (We can talk about my wild imagination more some other time.)

So I was starting to think that someone was fighting for their life, or that someone was being attacked by wild animals.

I was running up the trail, wishing that I had my pistol with me, but I'd left back in my tent. As I got closer, I found that all of that racket was coming from my camp!!!

So by then I was running like my butt was on fire.

As I came busting into my camp, my tent was no longer where I had put it up, but was now moving through the trees, bashing into some of them as it went.

All of my stuff was still in the tent, including my car keys. The tent was making good time, and I noticed that each time it hit a tree, I could hear a growling sound.

Now, it takes quite a bit to get me rattled and a lot to scare me. But this was the damnedest thing I had ever seen.

I was looking for a big stick to whack the hell out of whatever it is. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something BIG and hairy, and it was headed right for me! I turned my head and saw that coming right at me from about 15 yards was this black bear. Now, I know that the bears here do not seem that big, but when they are headed your way, they look to be the size of a bus.

I didn't know what this bear wanted, but it really looked mad, and I seemed to be in its way!

I tried to think quickly: Do I fall down and play dead? Should I try to spook it? Would I crap my pants, or what?! I decided that maybe I should just get the hell out of the way.

I did the fastest thing I could: crawl under my car. That's right -- under a 1970 Chevelle.

Do any of you know how low a 1970 Chevelle is to the ground? LOW! Really low. Those of you who know me right now know how I have put on a few pounds. Well I just seemed to be custom fitted to the bottom of that car. No way I could do it now, unless you jacked up the car first.

As I got under the car, who should show up but my uncle. So there I was under the car, waving at Uncle Fay. He was laughing and pointing, and my tent was still moving through the trees and getting further away. We both watched as a bear ran to my tent and jumped on it. The tent was now screaming in protest and making little jerky movements.

Fay hollered for me to stay put. We watched this bear take and rip my tent completely in half, like paper, and out came two little bear cubs. I realized what all the racket was about: I had left my tent open and there was a sandwich in the tent. Dumb, dumb, dumb. . . I know.

We watched as the three of them decided that it was the tent's fault, as well as the fault of the sleeping bag and all my clothes.

Everything was ripped, torn, chewed, and I think some of it might have been eaten.

And those fish I caught? Well, I dropped them in camp and those damn bears ate them also.

After getting out from the car and getting Fay to stop laughing, we went ahead and did some more fishing. The fishing was still good and we caught our fair share.

Later, after cleaning up the bear mess, we built a fire and cooked our fish. Uncle Fay offered to put me up for the night in town, but I turned him down. Fay left a little after sundown. I built up the fire, grabbed a blanket that I had in the trunk of the car, wrapped up, and looked at the stars for awhile. I had some more coffee and listened to the wind.

The next morning, I headed back for home. As I drove, I wondered what the bears thought about this. I'm sure they laughed about me trying to get out of the way. I know that Grandmother and Pappy did!

What are you wearing?

Jim is still grieving (and now he has a colossal cold), so you get me today (Kathi), since he didn't want the last post of the year to be on a sad note.

I thought I would tell you a story that involves Jim's dad. But it's a story in two parts.

My friend John (a gay man) and I had a joke that started when I was married to Mr. Poopie (in the "olden" days). Mr. Poopie thought that John and I were having an affair. The truth is that we, of course, just really liked each other. Oh -- and add the fact that John is gay. (Hello, Mr. Poopie?)

Before our divorce, I was carpooling downtown with Mr. Poopie because his car was broken, so I told him it was okay for him to ride with me. I was also going to pick up John, who lived downtown, because he and I were traveling for work together, and John didn't have a car of his own (since he lived downtown).

The deal was: I would call John when I reached a certain street. That would give him time to get himself and his suitcase downstairs and out front, so I would just swoop in and pick him up. When the time came to call John, I handed Mr. Poopie my cellphone and asked him to call John instead, and to tell him it was time to go downstairs.

I heard him make the call and saw a weird look cross Mr. Poopie's face, and when I stopped at John's I could tell he was about to burst with laughter he was holding in. But he didn't say anything.

When we dropped Mr. Poopie off, as soon as we pulled away, John did laugh long and hard, and I was waiting for my explanation!

John had answered the phone, since he knew it was me, in his sexiest voice asking, "What are you wearing?" Well, that really threw Mr. Poopie for a loop and further added to his suspicions. From that point on, John and I always answered the phone when the other one called by asking, in a sexy voice, "What are you wearing?"

Well, my father-in-law heard the story, so I started any future phone call with him with, "What are you wearing?" and his standard answer was, "Just my old geezer stuff." His old geezer stuff was a shirt, jeans, and lace-up boots, though I'm pretty sure he'd say the same thing even if he were wearing pajamas.

Now for the next part!

Before Jim and I bought the house we are living in, we looked around Mead, Milliken, Johnstown, etc. 'cause we had been told that it was possible to get one for less dollars than in the Denver area. Those cities are near Loveland, where Jim's parents live.

When we knew we were going to be in the area, I called them by cellphone in the morning to tell them that we'd be done looking in early afternoon, and that we'd call them then and maybe we'd all go to lunch. It was a plan.

We drove around and looked, and early on we saw one house with a promising sign in the window, so I called to get more information, but there was no answer. I wrote the number down and thought we might call again later.

Finally, we were tired of looking and hungry for lunch. I hit the redial button on my phone, 'cause I remembered that I had called my in-laws first thing that morning to tell them we were going to be in the area. The phone rang, and when my father-in-law answered, I said, "What are you wearing?" But instead of hearing, "Just my old geezer stuff," I got a response that was, "Well, my t-shirt, jeans, and my lace-up boots." I said that wasn't the answer I was expecting! My father-in-law said, "Well, that's what I'm wearing!" And I said I knew that's what we was wearing, but I didn't know why he didn't just say, "Just my old geezer stuff!" I was told that he might be old fashioned, but that he was no old geezer!

Okay. . . something wasn't right.

Oops. I just remembered that the last number dialed wasn't my in-laws', but that of the house with the sign in the window.

I was embarrassed, and gave the gentleman who answered the short version of the story, and he laughed, gave me some info on the house, than we hung up.

Of course, then I had to call my father-in-law and tell him about that. He thought it was the funniest thing! He chuckled about it all day.

This picture is of Jim, his son Bryan, and Jim's dad (also a Jim).

You will notice he is wearing his old geezer stuff.

FRIDAY BLUES

First and foremost, I want to thank all of you. Friends, family, and all of you out there who follow this little blog. I want to wish each and every one of you a VERY MERRY CHRISTMAS!

This holiday season, hold your loved one's close to you, and give them an extra hug and a kiss. Let them all know how much they mean to you this Christmas.

My Dad passed this morning. I'm going to be away from blogging for a bit. I wish that a lot of you could have known my Dad. I know that he would of fit right in with us bloggers.

He enjoyed a good story and to laugh, even at himself. He had a love of the outdoors like no one I have ever seen. He could catch fish, and hunt, camp. He loved to set in front of a nice campfire. He got his first deer when he was 16, and his first elk when he was 18. He also got his first and only bear when he was 17. I got my first elk when I was 16, and my first deer when I was 17. I never have been bear hunting.

My Dad served 13 years in the Air Force, then he got out because he had two kids to take care of. After my sister and I were in high school, he joined the Air Guard. Then after I was out of high school, he and Mom bought a place in Arkansas. They didn't have a Air National Guard there, but they did have a National Army Guard. So, he transferred to them. He worked in supply and took biochemical and nuclear warfare classes. He almost went in Desert Storm. He did his time in the guard and ended up doing 23 years total. He enjoyed every minute. The stories he had to tell!

Things won't be the same now that he is gone. He will be missed by so many, remembered by so many. And life will continue. The sun will rise and set. The seasons will keep going by. And he will be remembered.

He loved to dance. He loved animals. He was strong in his faith. He was someone you could talk to. And he was always ready to lend a hand to anyone. He loved to talk of firearms, and could answer just about anything you could think to ask about them. He was a jack of all trades, and a master of none. He could fix just about anything. He could be hard on you when you needed it. And Stern. But could cry for a little kitten that didn't make it, or a bird with a busted wing. Or to kiss away the boo boo of a child.

The outdoors will be just a bit more peaceful for me from now on. I won't be able to look at a deer, elk, mountain, or stream, or beaver pond and not think of him. He is now free to do his wandering in the hills of the hereafter.

He was a husband, a grandfather, a great grandfather, an uncle, a brother, a gardener, a hunter, a fisherman.

He was my Dad.

FEED YOUR FACE: A Favorite Fruitcake

This recipe came from Kathi's Grandma Lovey. Grandma thought this was very funny and got it out every year around Christmas-time. When Grandma Lovey passed away, Kathi got her recipe box. This was in it.
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This is my favorite recipe for fruitcake.

You'll need the following:

• a cup of water
• a cup of sugar
• a cup of brown sugar
• 4 large eggs
• 2 cups of dried fruit
• a teaspoon of baking soda
• a teaspoon of salt
• lemon juice
• nuts
• a bottle of whiskey

Sample the whiskey to check for quality.

Take a large bowl. Check the whiskey again to be sure it is of the highest quality. Pour one level cup and drink. Repeat.

Turn on the electric mixer. Beat one cup of butter in a large fluffy bowl. Add one teaspoon of sugar and beat again.

Make sure the whiskey is still okay. Cry another cup.

Turn off the mixerer. Break two leggs and add the bowl and chuck in the cup of dried fruit.

Mix on the turner. If the fried druit gets stuck in the beaterers, pry it loose with a drewscriver.

Sample the whiskey to check for consistency.

Next, sift two cups of salt. Or something. Who cares?! Check the whiskey.

Now sift the lemon juice and strain your nuts. Add one table spoon of sugar or something -- whatever you can find.

Grease the oven. Turn the cake tin to 350 degrees.

Don't forget to beat off the turner, throw the bowl out the window, check the whiskey again, then go to bed.

CHRISTMAS LIST

What's on your Christmas list? Do you have one? Have you even made it out yet? As a kid, I had it figured out. Instead of writing a letter to Santa, I just cut out the pages of the catalogs and marked what I wanted on the pages. Sometimes the envelopes were pretty fat. Sometimes there were only one or two pages, 'cause there was something I wanted really bad.

Once, I sent only one page. It had a mini bike that I really, really wanted in the worse way. I even had it figured out where I was going to ride it, and where it would be kept. (In my room of course!)

I even had figured out how to get gas for it. I was going to collect pop bottles. (That shows how old I am.) I didn't want any new socks or underwear, shirts nor sweaters. Not even new pajamas. All of those were things I got the year before. And, yeah, maybe there were some holes in my socks and underwear and a few of the shirts were a bit small.

BUT, MAN! We were talking about a REAL mini bike. It was red in color, had a banana seat, and a sissy bar, and chrome fenders. I mean, this was a BIG step up from my pedal car of years gone by. And it was way better than the bicycle from the year before. I mean, I could see myself on this thing in my mind's eye. It was meant for me. It was mine. I just knew it.

I told my parents how I would take care of it. I wouldn't ever tear it up or break it. And most important? I would never ask for anything else for Christmas, ever.

My Dad asked if I would share it with my sister. WHAT???!!!! Share it with HER?! The she- devil, my tormentor, the sweet big sister who beat the crap out of me on a regular basis? The one who would set on my chest and let spit run out of her mouth, let it get about a inch from my face, then suck it back up? The sister who hung me on Grandmother and Pappy'ss chain link fence, just that summer, And left me there while she went off with MY allowance of a quarter and got ice cream from the popsicle man?

I thought about it for a long time, before I gave in and said that, yes, I would share it with her.

I was already thinking of things I could do to keep her from riding it: blow up her Barbies, burn the hair off of her troll dolls, or maybe try to get her in trouble with the parents. Maybe grounded for the summer. Or maybe I would get lucky and someone would adopt her out of the family. Maybe she would just run away!

If I got the mini bike, I'm sure that I could come up with something by Spring. Plus, I needed to figure out how to make Santa want to leave a mini bike for me. AH HA! Everyone always leaves Santa milk and cookies. He has got to be tired of that year after year. So I had a plan.

We would leave him some cookies and the glass of milk, but I would wait until everyone was asleep, then I would get up, sneak into the living room, and drink the milk. Then I would go to the fridge and get out a can of beer. I'm sure that Santa would want a beer instead of always having milk! And I could arrange the cans so my Dad wouldn't notice. It was a good plan. I knew it would work.

I had this planed for several weeks. I didn't even tell any of my friends at school. And then it was Christmas eve. Things went pretty good. We ate dinner, cleaned up the kitchen, watched a little TV, and about 10 p.m. we were told to go to bed.

Well, no argument from me! I got ready for bed. We set out Santa's cookies and milk, and off to bed we all went.

At about 3 a.m., I snuck out of bed, made my way to the living room, drank the milk, and went and got a can of beer from the fridge. I put the can right next to the cookies. I then made my way back to my room and tried to go to sleep.

I couldn't.

I tossed and turned. I just knew that Santa was going to leave me that mini bike. At some point, I fell asleep. The next thing I know, my sister was poking me with the twirling baton that she got for her last birthday. It was 6 a.m. Time to see my new mini bike!

My sister and I sneaked into the living room. The tree was lit and I was looking for my mini bike. It was not in front of the tree or on either side, nor behind it. I was thinking, okay, maybe it is out in the garage. We wouldn't want it in the house; it would leak oil on the carpet! So, I decided to be patient and wait, sure that my Dad would surprise me with it later that morning. Then, my sister noticed that the cookies were gone. And I saw that the beer was gone.

Boy, I just about jumped out of my pj's, I was so excited! Santa drank the beer! And I just knew that my mini bike was in the garage. Now we just had to wait for everyone else to get up. 'Course my sister and I helped a little. We made a little noise. Okay. . we made quite a bit of noise. Finally, the parents were up! I was just trying to be cool about the whole thing. We opened gifts, and we made all the ooohs and aaahhhs that go along with opening gifts.

After a few minutes, I couldn't stand it any longer. I was about to open my mouth, and ask the whereabouts of my mini bike, when my Dad smiled real big, and handed me and my sister each a gift. He told us he looked all over town for our gifts.

"What the. . .where is the mini bike," I was thinking! He then told us to open the gifts. Before we started to rip the paper off of these gifts, I finally couldn't take it any more. I shouted out, "WHERE IS THE MINI BIKE ??!!"

Both parents looked at me like I was nuts.

My Dad gave me a funny look and asked, "What mini bike?" I about messed my pants. I'd only been talking about it for, like, EVER!

I was told that I was not old enough for a mini bike. I got upset, the tears started, the runny nose, the whole bit. I must have cried for hours, it seemed. My sister, on the other hand, was as happy as a fox in the hen house. I was still kind of snotin' and blowin,' and she punched me in the arm and laughed.

Well, I got socks, underwear, a sweater, a few pairs of pants, a Man From U.N.C.L.E. toy pistol, and a toy rifle from THRUSH, the bad guys who were always after the guys from U.N.C.L.E. I also got a skate board -- a Roller Derby skate board.

So, it was a pretty good Christmas after all, even though I didn't get what I really wanted.

That's okay. Next year, I didn't want some stupid ol' mini bike. I had just seen a show called "Fire Ball X L Five,"and they had these neat space bikes that fly through the air! Now, I ask ya: what can be cooler than having your own space bike?!!! Just think of all the places you could go! That's what I was going to ask for that next year.

Oh, yeah. . . I found a empty beer can in the trash that morning. My Dad, still to this day, says he didn't drink it.... HHHMMM?

PEDDLE YOUR A** OFF

This is more fun than riding a bicycle. When I was just a little kid, when we lived in Arkansas, I got a pedal car for Christmas. And, not just any pedal car -- it looked like a '57 Chevy. It was silver and blue. So, I forgot about my rocking horse and Wagon Train on the TV, and started being a race car driver who wore a six-gun and a cowboy hat.

No place in the house was safe! I parked that car right at the foot of my bed. It was parked only one night at the head of the bed, 'cause my dad came in one night to tell us good night and ran into my car, stubbing his toes and scraping his shin. So after that it was parked at the foot of the bed.

I would wake in the morning, jump to the foot of the bed, and then jump right into the driver's seat. And away I'd go. First stop? Potty. I would back into the bathroom, right next to the toilet, and stand on the seat of the pedal car, pee and -- when done -- away we went.

Next, a turn or two around the coffee table and then into the dinning room.

I was always stopped before I could drive into the kitchen. I was made to park my car out of the way while we ate breakfast. So, I parked it under the dining table. Now, I never let my sister drive my car 'cause she would break it.

Besides, she always wanted to put one of her dumb dolls in it. And that Christmas, she got the MOTHER of all dolls. This thing was as tall as she was. There was no way that the two of them would fit in my car. 'Course, there was the mom saying, "Share with your sister!"

Why?!! I didn't want her to share with me. All she had were them dumb dolls. Why would a race car/cowboy driver want to play with dolls!

One day I was out racing around the block and my sister had that mother of all dolls outside. She had roller skates on the doll, and she had her roller skates on and was trying to get this doll to skate down the sidewalk. On about lap 40, I came around the corner, took my legs and feet up off the pedals and was coasting down the sidewalk.

My sister and her doll were about half a block in front of me. Now, this is when that little devil that we all have in us as kids saw the doll in the middle of the sidewalk, and saw my sister in the grass walking and making this doll skate down the walk. Everytime I came up behind them, I had to slow down.

Well, not this time. I was coasting along like at 100 miles an hour. I hunkered down a bit in the seat and put the little painted hood ornament dead center on that doll. I hit that doll so hard that the hand and arm that my sister had a hold of was ALL she had. That doll flew! I mean, that thing must have been 50 feet in the air and was doing flips.

Me, on the other hand, got smacked by the doll's head as she started her first flip. One of the doll's legs was stuck under the front of my car and it was just big enough that it lifted the front end of my pedal car enough that the front wheels were off the ground.

The doll was 50 feet in the air, doing flips, I got smacked in the head by the doll's head, and I was teary eyed. There was a doll's leg stuck under the front end of my pedal car, so now I can't steer. And my sister is screaming her head off and chasing me down the sidewalk, swinging a doll arm.

Then I was off the sidewalk and headed towards a neighbor's driveway where his new Buick was parked. And then..... BANG! I hit the passenger side of the Buick. My pedal car stopped, the wedged doll leg slid under the Buick, my sister was still screaming, and she was starting to beat me with a doll arm. The doll had hit the ground and bounced into a rose bush.

I couldn't get out of the pedal car. I was trapped, not because of mangled metal, but because my sister had me by the shirt collar and was beating me to death. Mom heard the screaming of my sister, who was screaming like I ran over her instead of that doll. The neighbor lady who owned the Buick heard the screaming and came out to see what was going on. When she saw her new Buick, she started screaming also.

So everyone was screaming except for me. Mom got me out of my pedal car, and swatted my butt, and my sister was still swinging that doll arm from around mom. The neighbor lady wanted to swat my butt, too.

I was looking at my pedal car.

The front was crumpled some, the front tires looked a little out of whack, and there was this nice scratch of blue paint on the side of the white Buick. No ding, no dent -- just blue paint from my pedal car.

Mom grabbed me and my car, and dragged us to the house, saying the words that all kids dread: "WAIT TILL YOUR FATHER GETS HOME!"

Well he came home, asked me what happened, and I told him: I tried to run over my sister's doll because she would always make me slow down as I came down the hill and it wasn't fun going slow down a hill! My sister must have cried for something like a week, it seemed. It was maybe just a day. I was grounded for a week. You know. . . no TV and all that.

My dad fixed that stupid doll. One leg was scratched real bad. He managed to get the arm put back in and it had all of these little scratches from the rose bush. It's eyes didn't seem to work quite right after that. When you'd lay the doll down, and the eyes would close? Well, they kinda closed, but one eye kinda looked off to one side. And I never thought that I would see my pedal car ever again.

My dad somehow managed to fix it up. Or maybe one of the guys at the air base helped him fix it. It still worked, but the paint wasn't the same. It had a dent or three that couldn't be pounded out. The first time I took it around the block after it was fixed and coasted down that sidewalk, it seemed that it was going just a might faster than when it was new.

As I went by the neighbor lady, she gave me a crusty look, so I stuck my tongue out at her, and went right on by.

As I came up by my house, there was my dad with a smile on his face.

I don't know who, or how, but the Buick was fixed and repainted. It was the same color of blue as my pedal car. And the same blue as was still on the back of the legs on that stupid doll.

THANKSGIVING IN THE ROCKIES : Part II

As I got up from my log, I tossed a few chunks of wood on my fire and started towards the road. As I made my way along I could for sure hear voices, and the creak of leather on the cold wind.

Around the bend in the road came two men on horseback. One was leading a pack horse with empty packs, the other was looking behind to see how things were going. Both men seemed in good spirits. As they came around the bend fully they saw me standing by the road. I raised a hand and said hi. They both pulled up to a stop in front of me. The horses were breathing a little hard and you could see the steam rise from their damp fur. The men said hello and then they saw my camp.

One of them laughed. He said that they thought that they were the only ones up here. I told them that I had hiked in just this morning. I asked them where they were headed. The one leading the pack horse smiled and said that they had a few out of town hunters down the road, and that they were with an outfitter from Granby. He introduced himself and his friend.

The one leading the pack horse was named Bob, and the other one was named John. I invited them to my camp and told them that I could put on a pot of coffee. They thanked me, but said that they had to be at the top of the county road to pick up some supplies for their camp, which they said was about 3 miles further down the road. They told me that they had several hunters from Texas and had several tents set up. Said that they were the "Chief cook and bottle washers for the outfit." They would leave camp every 3 days to get more supplies. They would ride out to the main road, and would wait until their boss showed up with more supplies. Bob said that they had been up there for about three weeks now, and only one of their Texas hunters had filled his tag, and that had been filled yesterday.

John added that they should get a move on so that they were up by the main road by 4 p.m. They had just a few miles to get there and wanted to be there before the "boss" showed up. They thanked me for the offer of coffee, and said that they would stop for a few minutes on the way back to their camp. Well the little break they had taken, by stopping and talking to me, had let the animals catch their breath and cool down some. They took off up the road and I walked all of maybe 50 feet when I looked up and saw I had three deer in my camp. The deer saw me at the same time and, in about 3 leaps each, they were in the trees and gone.

As it was getting to be later in the day, I thought that I would start to get things together for my dinner. I thought that maybe I would fix up the chicken that I had brought with me, along with some canned corn and maybe do up some more biscuits. So I stoked up my fire, got my chicken out of the plastic bag I had him in, made a spit out of a choke cherry limb, and put him over the fire. Opened up a can of corn and dumped it in a pan, and took two more biscuits from my pringles can, greased up my old skillet, and set them by the fire. I decided to have some coffee, so got that to making also.

Things were shaping up real nice and I could start to smell the bird cooking. As I set out my plate and silverware I heard a gun shot, then another followed about 20 seconds after the first. I figured that one of the Texans must have filled his tag. So as I was setting there feeding my face, I heard voices again and a horse blow. It surprising how far sound carries in the mountains.

Down the road came Bob and John, leading the pack horse, and this time all the packs were full. As they got near my camp I got out two more cups, poured some coffee in each, and walked down to the road. They pulled up and I handed them each a cup. They didn't say a word, but went right to sipping that coffee. You could tell that they were a bit on the cold side. Both had red checks and their noses looked like they would fall off if you touched them. Man! they were redder than fire trucks.

Bob said that they had to wait a little longer than normal: the boss had a flat on the way up and had to change it. They also told me that my car had been buried in snow when the snow plow came by.

I told John that I heard a shot a while ago and figured that one of their Texans got something. Bob chugged the rest of his coffee, and said thanks, and that he was going to head on down the road back to camp. John said he would be right behind him. As Bob went on down the road, John thanked me for the coffee and behind this great big smile asked me if I would like to join them all for Thanksgiving dinner in their camp tomorrow afternoon, as it would be Thanksgiving day. I wasn't really quite sure what to say. Here I was up in the mountains the day before Thanksgiving and just planning to spend time by myself, camp out from Wednesday to Sunday, head home, and start the work week, never expecting anything like this.

But I said, yes, that would be great. John thanked me again for the coffee, and I asked as he was riding off if I needed to bring anything with me tomorrow. He said, over his shoulder, not to worry, that they had it covered.

As John rode out of sight, I caught a whiff of my cooked chicken and my biscuits. I poured myself another cup of coffee, stirred the corn, and checked the biscuits. Everything was done and I couldn't wait to eat. The meal was great! I ate just about the whole chicken, but managed to save one drumstick for breakfast in the morning.

As evening was approaching, it started to snow lightly. I cleaned up my campsite, carried water up from the stream to heat for washing dishes and for washing myself up. Nothing like standing out in the wilds with no shirt on and trying to wash up.

As the night progressed and it got darker, I threw more wood on the fire, settled back on my log with my feet towards the fire and just lounged. It was a beautiful night, snow was still coming down lightly, and the stars were shinning brightly. Later the moon would be out. All seemed right with the world. It must of been close to midnight or so before I banked my fire, crawled into to my tent, and snuggled down in my sleeping bag.

I awoke to a gorgeous morning. The sun was out and everything was so bright. It was one of those mornings, you know, the kind when you were a kid, and it is Christmas and the morning just flies by before you know it? Well, it felt like one of those mornings. I could hear the stream behind my camp and there was a squirrel chattering in the pines. And I could swear that I could smell coffee and what almost smelled like pumpkin pie. But it couldn't be. It had to be my mind playing tricks on me.

I checked my campfire and found a few hot coals, and got my fire going again. Put on some water for coffee and made up some eggs, fried up the rest of my trout, and had a fine breakfast. After breakfast, I went and picked up more firewood, stacked it under a big tree, and covered the wood with the tarp I had brought with. I cleaned up camp and finished up the coffee.

I had some time before I had to head down the road for my Thanksgiving meal and I didn't want to go empty handed. So I grabbed my fishing pole and off to the stream I went. The fishing was not as good as it was the day before, but I managed to catch four nice brook trout. I like to catch these brookies, they all are about 8 to 11 inches or so, and they fit just right in my old skillet. There are smaller brookies, but I try to let them go. But every now and then one of them little buggers swallows the hook, and well, you just end up with a small one now and then. But they all taste great. So now I had something to bring to the Thanksgiving meal.

I grabbed my snowshoes and my back pack, stuffed the fish in a bag, and put them in the pack. I grabbed my .22 -- you never know, I might get a rabbit or two along the way. So off down the road I went. The going was not too bad after having some fresh snow from the night before. I was making good time, and I could hear some voices in the distance. Sounded like they are having a good time.

As I was snowshoeing along the road, I was coming across a lot of tracks -- deer, elk, porcupine, squirrel, martin, and rabbit. As I came over a little rise, standing in the road were two grouse. Well, grouse is better than rabbit any day, so I took aim and got one of the grouse. The other flew into a tree not 20 feet from me. I took aim and got the second grouse. I took the time to dress them out, put them in a bag, and placed them in my pack.

I could see the camp of Bob, John, and their Texans. They had a real good spot for the camp: plenty of wood all around, a small corral for the horses, the same stream behind the tents as I had, and they had two huge tents set up across from one another.

Then the wind shifted and I got a whiff of something cooking. I could swear that I smelled turkey. Bob saw me first and hollered at me to come on in. As I made my way into the camp, I thought I could smell apple pie! John came from around the corner with a arm full of firewood. He dropped the wood and pointed out the rest of the guys that were setting around the fire. There was a guy named Mark, real skinny and tall. And then there was Josh and Ray, two of the biggest guys I had ever seen. I thought for sure that they played pro football. I felt kind of sorry for the horses that had to carry these two.

I took off my pack and unloaded the birds and fish. Bob took them and went into one of the tents. As the flap opened I thought I smelled sweet 'taters, or could it have been pumpkin pie. When Bob came out of the tent, he had donned a apron. He said it would be about another hour before we ate. I was handed a beer and given a fold-up chair to set in. We set around the fire talking about this and that. The guy named Mark was in real estate sales in Houston. Josh and Ray were from Dallas, and they were partners in a log cabin business. Tey would get together every deer and elk season and come hunt Colorado.

They all seemed really nice. It was a little difficult to understand them every now an then. But I liked them well enough. Before I knew it Bob was hollering and banging on a pan to "COME AND GET IT !!" I thought that I was going to get trampled getting into the tent. I could not believe my eyes when I got inside.

This tent was their mess tent; they took all their meals in it. They had a folding table off to one side. On it was drinks -- pop, beer, water, coffee, wine, and who knows what else. The other table was set just like a fancy restaurant -- napkins, silverware, cups, glasses, a centerpiece decoration, and the food. It looked like there was enough to feed us and the whole town of Golden. There was turkey, which they had brought with them from Texas. There was my grouse and brook trout. And we had stuffing, potatos -- sweet and mashed, gravy, cranberry sauce, biscuits, corn, green beans, and at least three different kinds of pie. It was just like being at home with family and friends. I have never seen that much food for one meal on a hunting trip of any kind in my life.

We ate and ate, laughed, talked, and ate some more. I have never eaten that much in my life! And the pies! They were so good. I seem to remember eating at least 4 slices with whipped cream. By the time we were done, we had pretty well eaten all there was. I don't think I could have looked at a pie or another piece of turkey for at least another year. I mean, we ALL, had our pants undone and could hardly move. I do not know what it is about eating while in the mountains, but it always seems to taste better, and you can eat so much more.

We sat around and talked until it was dark. The food was fantastic and the company was great. They loaded me up with leftovers, and I managed to be able to bend over just long enough to get my snowshoes on. And I headed back up the road to my camp, the walk was slow. . . really slow. I thought I was going to burst.

I made it back to camp, got my fire going, dragged out my sleeping bag to wrap up in, and just sat in front of the fire. The next thing I knew, it was morning.

The next few days were spent fishing, drawing, collecting firewood, and seeing the guys down the road every now and then.

Sunday came too fast, and I was packing up to head back to my car when they all came out and up the road, scruffy, dirty, and smiling to beat the band. They stopped long enough to let the horses blow and check the load on the pack horses. The guys from Texas had bagged two elk. I don't know who got what. They all seemed ready to head for home. I shook hands with all of them, and they left, leaving me feel that I was a part of the group.

I finished packing and hiked out to my car. To my surprise, those guys had dug my car out for me!

That was one of the best Thanksgivings that I have had in my life. I still think about it every year at Thanks giving.

I saw Bob and John several times over the years on some of my hunting trips, and I ran into Josh and Ray one year while hunting right where they had hunting camp set up so many years ago.

After all these years, and so many hunting trips have passed, I still think of these guys every year, and thank them from my heart that they shared a Thanksgiving so many years ago with me. It has brought me closer to my family and friends.

I wish that all of you could share in something like I did. I wish that all of your Thanksgivings, no matter where you are, are the best and that they bring memories that you will all cherish forever.

That was my Thanksgiving in the Rockies.

Have a great Thanksgiving!

HALLOWEEN PAST

I see that some of the followers of this blog had some good times at Halloween parties last night. Others just hung out at home. We had only 11 treaters at our house. So someone is going to have to take care of the leftover candy we have.

How many Jolly Rancher candies can you put in your mouth at one time? How many apples can you bob for? How many of those little Snicker candy bars will fit in your mouth? Did you get to walk with any of those little ones in your family? How many times did you go back to the same house, that gave out the best candy? Did you pile all of the candy on the table? Pick out what you like? And then put the stuff you don't like back in the bowl to be handed back out to someone else?

Man, if I could count how many times I did that as a kid. Seemed like I had enough candy from Halloween that it would last till almost New-Year's Eve. 'Course some of the chocolate bars had kind of turned white by then. But hey, candy is candy. We used to do the same at Easter. Stash that candy. Every now and then we may have overlooked an Easter egg that ended up in the bottom of our basket.

I did that one year. I stashed my Easter candy in its basket, in my closet, in a cubby hole, not knowing that one of them sneaky Easter eggs had worked it's way to the bottom of the basket. Needless to say, after about a month after Easter there was this bad smell coming from my room. And for the life of my parents, they could not figure what it was. They knew it was coming from my room, but could not pin point it.

Me, on the other hand? I didn't smell a thing. My Dad thought for sure that it was some old rotten underwear. They made me clean my room several times. But, the smell was still there and getting worse. My Dad thought maybe by this time that it was several pairs of rotten shorts. Mom, on the other hand, made the mistake of opening my closet door. Poor woman. Dropped right to her knees and turned a nice shade of this weird green, and lost her lunch, right there in my closet.

When I was a child, when told to clean my room, I took EVERY HING that was on the floor, chairs, desk, bed, door knob, hanging on the door, and shoved it all into my closet on the floor. I had so much stuff on the floor of my closet that I could have hidden all the gold from Fort Knox there and nobody would have known.

So, Mom has ralphed in my closet. She was still green, and her eyes had kinda rolled up in her head. And then, she kinda stood up on wobbly legs. She did not ask me, but TOLD me to drag out EVERYTHING in that closet, NOW! She would not even let me put on gloves or one of them paper mask things. So, I went to work, dragging stuff out. Man, I found stuff that I hadn't played with in like 5 years.

The ralph clothes went to the laundry room. (She made me do the laundry.) All of the other stuff was thrown out or put in boxes for storage. After all that work, we still could not figure what the smell was. By then, I had forgotten about the Easter basket in the cubby hole.

That year, at Christmas, I got more packages of underwear and after shave. I think that some lady from Avon got rich that Christmas. It wasn't until about the age of 15 or so that we had a major water leak from the bathroom and had to rip out the wall of my closet.

Guess what? We found an old Easter basket. And it still had some CANDY in it! And this fuzzy looking stuff that was fossilized. My Dad made me take it out to the field behind our house and bury it. He didn't want to bury it in our yard. He was afraid that the cops would show up and think that we had a body buried out back or that our cat would dig it up.

That was one of my past Halloweens as a kid.

Oh yeah. . . 20 Jolly Ranchers fit in my mouth back then or 9 little Snickers bars. Now, I didn't do this all at one time. One, was on a dare. The other was a bet. Boy, I had great friends back then, right?

BARTERING

Another neat thing I like about Fall and all it's bounty is that it is a time to maybe do a little bartering with the fellow down the road. Or the lady who owns the peach orchard on the other side of town. Bartering has been around a long time -- longer than Obama's speeches.

Kidding aside, bartering has been with us since before we came to this country. For those of you who don't know how it works, it is really pretty neat. You trade something of yours with something of someone else's. Like, I might have a huge crop of tomatoes and my neighbor might have a overabundance of corn. We get together, and I trade some of my tomatoes for some of his corn.

You can barter just about anything you can think of. My grandfather once, as a kid, worked for this rancher, putting up hay in the rancher's barn. He worked putting up this hay for three days. My grandfather said he worked his butt off for this guy! He had NO money to pay him with, but he had a .22 rifle. He traded those three days worth of work, putting up his hay, in trade for that .22.

At the end of those three days, he walked away with that .22 and over 300 rounds of ammo. Was it a fair trade? You bet it was. Grandfather used that .22 to put meat on the table for his mom and pop and six siblings, even though it was squirrels and rabbits and sage hens. It helped keep his family fed. And it helped his dad supplement what food and whatnot the family needed.

They ate a hell of a lot of beans, he said. Sometimes three times a day. He still loved his beans right up to the day he passed.

So, you could barter for some beans or maybe fix something for somebody, and take some produce, or chickens, or whatever in trade for your time.

With the way the economy is right now, a little bartering could be a good thing. Think about it. Have you extra of something, and maybe your neighbor has something you might like or need? Go have a little chat. Maybe you can work a little magic and you both get what you want or need.

And, we all would be helping each other. When it comes right down to it, isn't that what we should be all about?

FEED YOUR FACE: Breakfast Hash

How about, for a cold and lazy morning, making some breakfast hash to feed your family!

There are lots of ways to make hash. Some people just throw in some leftovers from the fridge or make corn beef hash (or get it from a can).

Well, let's try what I call Italian Hash.

You'll need:
1 pound of Italian sausage
1/2 cup chopped red onion
3 tablespoons veggie oil
1/2 cup sour cream
2 teaspoons Dijon mustard
1 package of hash browns, or grate your own from a real potato
Salt and pepper to taste

In your skillet, cook the sausage and onion. (I slice up the sausage or remove the casing -- or sometimes I do both.)

Cook that over medium heat until the sausage is browned. Remove the sausage and onion with a slotted spoon. Drain the grease. Get rid of the excess grease in the skillet.

Heat 2 tablespoons of the vegetable oil in your skillet. Add the hash browns, spreading them in a even layer. Press down lightly with spatula. Cook 6 to 7 minutes or until golden brown on the bottom. Drizzle with 1 tablespoon of oil, turn hash browns over with spatula, and cook 6 to 8 more minutes until the potatos are golden brown and tender. Turn them again if need be.

In a medium bowl, stir the cooked sausage and onion, sour cream, and mustard until well blended. Stir that mixture into your potatos. Cook until heated through. Season with salt and pepper.

Then throw on a poached or fried egg and dig in.

I had this on the ranch years ago. My aunt and uncle had hired a crew for haying season. One of the guys was Italian. My aunt cooked for the haying crew, three meals a day. Well, one morning, my aunt had cut her hand and some of the crew were at the house. My aunt had kitchen help, but they could not do all the cooking themselves. So this crew member jumped up and offered to help. My aunt was a little surprised by his offer, but he jumped right in and she let 'im.

Old Joe was setting at the table when I came into the kitchen. He was sipping on his coffee and watching this Italian fellow, now with an apron on, take over my aunt's kitchen. This guy was all over the place. My aunt was seated at the table, giving directions. This fellow followed what she wanted done until he was cooking the hash browns. He looked at my aunt, then at the hash browns, and asked if that was all she did with her hash browns. She said for today, they would be fine just the way they were.

Well, he said something under his breath and went back to cooking. While cooking breakfast, my aunt always had dinner being cooked and prepared also. And we knew that night we were having spaghetti. Well, there was some Italian sausage left over, so before my aunt knew what was happening, this guy whipped up the sausage and onions and stuff and put it in the hash browns.

Old Joe just kind of made a face, looked at me, and winked. Breakfast was served, and everybody had more than enough to fill their bellys, including my aunt, who would wait until everyone else had eaten first. Then she would eat after the crew headed out the door. I think that my aunt was a little surprised by this guy's good cooking.

With her hand in a bandage, she really could not do much in the kitchen. The guys left to cut hay, and the Italian guy helped to clean up the kitchen. Then he came in and told my aunt that he would come back to help with lunch. He did, and it was good eating. My aunt ended up keeping him at the ranch through the haying season and my uncle had to hire one more for the haying crew.

Man, did we eat good that season! Old Joe taught him how to ride a horse and even shared his little bunk house with him. They were quite the pair. Old Joe had this fellow all decked out like a real cowboy. And old Joe got to eat lots of Italian food in trade.

On several nights, we would set out side of Joe's place, him with his mouth harp, and the Italian guy with a violin. The music was great. Joe never could pronounce this fellow's name, so he ended up being called Hash. Hash stayed on for awhile. He got real good at riding a horse and being a cowboy, working on the ranch.

Those were some great times in my life.

So, have some breakfast hash and FEED YOUR FACE!

CHILDHOOD MEMORIES: Our "Help"

Where to begin! I just finished reading The Help. I hope that some of you have read this book. If not, please give it a read. I found it to be a very true-to-life story for many of us who lived in the South during that time period (the 1960's).

I was born in Fort Worth, Texas, in 1956. My sister was born 2 years earlier, here in Colorado. Our father was in the Air Force at that time. He was stationed in Little Rock, Arkansas. We lived in Little Rock, and then moved to Russellville, Arkansas. We were probably 2 and 4 at the time.

Now, at this time, my Dad had divorced my birth mom and he had remarried. The marriage was not the best in the world. He had to work all week at the base in Little Rock. He would come home to Russellville on weekends. I think our stepmom wasn't really ready to have a ready- made family.

They had fights, arguments, shouting matches, and such when they were together. My sister and I would set a foot or two from the TV and crank up the volume so we could not hear them. I know that this sounds really harsh, but I think that they did the best that they could. But my sister and I think that they were just not really ready to settle down and raise a family. So, the stage is set.

My sister and I shared a bedroom, just like a lot of kids have had to over the years. We were living in a little pink house in Russellville. There were kids to play with and lots of things to do. Also, a lot of things to get into.

Our Dad had bought a beauty salon for our stepmom, so we had to have someone come to our house to watch over us while she was at the salon working.

I wish that I could remember Nanny's name. She was black and overweight. She took care of us. Boy, could she cook.

Every morning before our stepom left for work, our breakfast consisted of a bottle of CocaCola and we each got a slice of cinnamon bread. Then we were to set on the couch after our stepmom would leave for work and wait for our nanny.

I'm sure that we didn't set for more than 10 minutes or so, if that. Almost as soon as she left and the door closed behind her, my sister and I were on the move. We were hungry, and the soda and toast was not enough to two little hungry tummies.

We would run into the kitchen. I would open a drawer and get out two spoons. My sister would pull out drawers to make steps so she could climb to get up to the cupboards, and she would get two cereal bowls. Then we would run out to the back porch where there was a big bag of dry dog food for our dog, Snowball.

We would scoop dog food into our bowls, then we then would come back in the house and my sister would get the milk out of the fridge and pour it into our bowls. We would wolf down our "dog cereal," as we called it. Then my sister would climb up on the counter, rinse the bowls and spoons, and she would put the used bowls on the bottom of the stack of clean cereal bowls, and I would put the spoons under all of the other spoons, then we'd run and get back on the couch to wait for the lady who watched us to arrive.

Our new nanny caught us getting our dog cereal once, and from then on she would fix us breakfast every day, sometimes bringing it with her from home. She cleaned our house every day. And she always had something for us to do.

At lunchtime, we had the best things to eat. She made us fried chicken, with watermelon for dessert. Her chocolate cake was the greatest! We grew to love her, and she grew to love us.

She was like a mother to us -- only better. She made over us just like we were her own.

Once, we had to go into town. We got on the bus. She placed me and my sister in a seat at the front of the bus, then she went to the back of the bus to find a seat for herself, since she was not allowed in the front.

We had maybe gone two blocks when the bus stopped to take on some more people. This guy, whom I can only say looked like a bum, sat next to us on the same seat. Well, he scared the crap out of me and my sister. We jumped out of our seat and ran to the back of the bus to climb up into our nanny's lap.

The bus driver stopped the bus, and came back to speak to Nanny. He told her that we had to set up in the front of the bus with the rest of the white folks. Nanny told the bus driver that we were scared of the guy that was in our seat. The driver told her that we either had to sit up in the seat we had been in, or we would have to get off the bus.

So the three of us got off the bus and walked the rest of the way.

One time, our Dad came home early. Nanny was there, cleaning up the house. She was nervous, 'cause it was the first time she would have seen our dad. Right before he came home, she was dusting the coffee table and she had dropped this real big heavy ashtray on it. It left a huge scratch, and you could see the bare wood. Well, she took a couple of cigarettes, unwrapped them, and put the tobacco in her mouth. It seemed that she had that tobacco in her mouth for an hour, but it was probably just a few minutes. She took that wad of tobacco out of her mouth, put it on that big scratch, and she rubbed and rubbed. Soon you couldn't see the scratch! She swore us to never tell, and we didn't! That is, not until about 25 years later. Dad had never known. She could have lost her job with us, I'm sure, if our stepmom had found out.

My dad and stepmom divorced after just a short time, and the three of us moved to Colorado. But I would think of Nanny often.

When I was 9 or 10, we had to make a trip to Arkansas. Our former stepmom took us to see Nanny. We were so glad to see each other! She made over us, just like she did when we were small.

She was a lot older and grayer. But she still had that light in her eyes that she always seemed to have when she would walk in our door and see us all those years ago.

I don't know how many kids she took care of over the years. My sister and I have often wondered whatever became of her. She loved us, and we loved her.

All these years later? I'm sure that she has passed on. And I'm just as sure that she, and all of the black ladies who took care of kids all over the South, are in heaven, taking care of all of the little ones.

I plan to find her name and where she is buried. I'll go visit her at her gravesite. Thanks to her, my sister and I were able to survive a real rough spot in our lives. I am forever grateful.

FEED YOUR FACE: Old Joe's Texas camp bread

Old Joe said that his Ma used to make this quite often. He said it dates back to the 1850's.
So let's get started. You need:
10 cups flour
3 teaspoons salt
4 teaspoons black pepper
1 teaspoon sugar
1 tablespoon lard
4 1/2 cups water

Also, you need your dutch oven or cast iron skillet.

Sift and mix all the ingredients together. Use lukewarm water to make a fairly dry dough. Let the dough set for about 20 to 30 minutes. Roll out the dough until it is 1/4 to 1/2 inch thick. Cut the dough into rounds using your biscuit cutter, and cook on a hot, bacon-greased cast iron skillet or dutch oven.

Poke with a fork and turn them over when browned on the first side.

These hummers are great when out camping, hunting, or fishing. Plus, you could break a few in half, put them in a bowl, add some strawberries or peaches or whatever kind of fruit you have on hand. And maybe a big spoon of ice cream.

Old Joe made these when my sister and I were at the ranch. Man, talk about good! We would set around a campfire and have them after supper. Somehow he would come up with some wild strawberries that he would put sugar on then let them set in a cooler on ice.

While we stuffed our faces, he would tell a few stories. Heck, even Uncle Fay would stuff his face, and smack his lips and lick the bowl like a little kid. Uncle Fay would even listen to some of the stories Old Joe would tell. Sometimes, with eyes as big -- if not bigger -- than mine or my sister's.

So give this a try. Make a batch, and get out the butter and homemade jelly. Smack your lips, and rub your tummy. I think that you will really like these. . .

So, FEED YOUR FACE!

My Grandma's Bowl

Kathi here again, until Jim gets to where he can sit a little longer.

Do you read the Bye-Bye-Pie blog? It's really good. Be sure to read the comments, too, 'cause sometimes they are the best part!

Today the posting was about the author's grandma. It made me cry just a little -- enough that I had to wipe a couple drips of mascara from under my eye. Next time, I will buy waterproof.

I spent a lot of time with my mom's mom, 'cause she watched my sister Karen and I when my mom worked at the library when we were really little. Then, we saw her every Saturday when my mom would take her grocery shopping, and on Sunday's when we would pick her up for church. She always looked pretty and smelled good, and we made it a ritual to tell her that each time she got in the car. It was said in the most dramatic fashion possible, with a little sniffing sound for effect: "Grandma, you look pretty and ((SNIFF SNIFF)) smell good!"

In the summer, my grandma grew rhubarb, pickles, and strawberries. I'm sure she probably grew other things, too, 'cause she was from a farm. But, what those things were? I don't remember! I think I remember the rhubarb, pickles, and strawberries because those were my favorite things that she grew, don't you think?

Before lunch each day, she would let us pick berries to have with our lunch. Of course, we ate just about as many before we got into the house as by the time we got them in. They were so red, ripe, sweet, and juicy, and tasted sooooo good.

She had a pretty little bowl that she mainly used for fruit or fruit salad. I liked it because it was emerald green, my favorite color. It's also a nice size -- not too small, not too big. The berries piled in that bowl were so pretty and tempting. Yum.

Late in her life, she moved from her house with the wonderful gardens into senior apartments. Of course, she had to pare things way down in order to fit them into her new, smaller place.

I got custody of the beautiful green bowl. I GOT CUSTODY OF THE BEAUTIFUL GREEN BOWL!!!

I didn't use it. I put it on a shelf to look at because I didn't want it to break from use.

Well, one of my dogs knocked into the shelf somehow one day while I was gone, and I came home to find the beautiful green bowl shattered on the floor. I was so sad.

The bowl was more than just a bowl to me:
It was a symbol of the times my grandma fed us lunch and cared for us.
It was a reminder of the time spent picking berries together.
It was something she held in her hands so many times, then she passed it on to me.

Once, at a garage sale, I found glasses that matched the bowl. Though they weren't the bowl, they were a visual reminder, so I bought them, and they remain in my cupboard to this day.

But! Last year, I found the same bowl online. It was less than $10, and I wanted it because it was like THE bowl.

I was torn about buying it. Sure, it was just $10, but I wasn't sure I deserved the bowl. What if I broke that one, too? I consulted with my sister Kristi, with whom I consult about all the important things on my brain. She convinced me to get the bowl, but to USE it, not just set it on a shelf.

She was right, of course, so I bought the bowl. I have used it several times since, and when it is not being used or going to someone's potluck, it sits on the display shelf in my living room, behind glass so it doesn't have a mishap when I'm not around.

I learned a few important lessons from the loss and re-finding of the bowl.

1. Use the special things that have meaning to you, and don't save them for "good." They are never going to mean as much to someone else anyway, I'll bet.

2. Those special things aren't really that special: the memories they invoke are.

3. A sister with whom you can consult of things is a very good thing to have. I love and appreciate mine.

4. Grandmas stay in your heart long after they have left you to be with God.

I hope that you all have or had really good grandmas and really good sisters and some awesome memories.

And a nice bowl for berries isn't a bad thing to have either.

OLD SPURS: Part I

When they were bought new, they shined, and they jingled as you walked down the street. Now, all these years later, they are worn and tarnished, with some rust here and there. And they don't jingle quite like they used to. The leather straps are dry and the heel chains that broke off years ago were replaced with baling wire while out on the range and was never replaced with new chain.

The young fella that bought the spurs was named Joe. I never knew his last name. He started out at a young age as a cowboy. His family was large: he had four sisters who were older than he, and two brothers, one older than Joe and one younger. Seven kids was quite a handful, and there were times that there was not enough food to go around. When Joe was about 14 or so, as he remembers, his dad passed away. His Dad was stomped by a horse that he was trying to bust. The horse managed to bust out of the corral and ran off into the Texas hills.

Then it was just his mom and seven kids. They all pitched in to help make ends meet. Money was tight. The boys did the chores then would look for work on ranches. The girls would help around the house while their mother looked for work away from the ranch. There was not a lot of jobs to be had, so their mom took to doing laundry and two of the girls took up sewing. That brought in some money, but not enough to put food on the table and to buy feed for the animals, or seed for planting.

Joe, at the age of 14, found work on a ranch the other side of town. Just about all of his pay went to his mom for the rest of the kids. He put some aside for himself for things that he needed. Joe said that the ranch he was working on was a cattle outfit. That is how he became a cowboy.

He learned how to rope cows, and the other fellas taught him how to tie a bed roll and how to take care of his gear. Plus, they showed him how to roll a smoke. Joe always seemed to have a rolled cigarette in his mouth. He was working, had three meals a day, and a cot to sleep on. They also gave him a old saddle, bridle, and other tack.

Then they gave him his first horse. Joe laughed, as the horse they gave him was a wild mustang from the Texas hills. He was told that if he could break him, he could have him. Joe said that it took him over a month to break that woolly booger, what with all the other work he had to do on the ranch.

Joe worked on that ranch for over five years. In all those years, he kept on sending his mom money and he would go back and see his family whenever he could. In those five years, two of his older sisters had gotten hitched, as he liked to say, and had moved out of state. He also lost his younger brother, who had been shot and robbed while heading to town to pay a bill at the general store. They never did find the fella that shot him. And Joe still wondered about it.

At 19, Joe left the ranch he had been working on. He took his horse and what little bit of money he had saved and headed north. He worked several ranches in Montana then moved toward the Dakotas. He worked ranches there. And as he put it, he just "cowboyed around."

Texas, to Canada, and also spent time in California. Worked on a movie or two as a wrangler. But he said that he can't remember the name of the pictures. He says that he got to know a few stars back then, like Tex Ritter and some others that I can't remember.

He finally ended up here in Colorado on the ranch that my uncle ran in Kremmling, up by Steamboat. He was hired by my uncle's dad. He was really more the boss of the ranch than my uncle was.

The ranch is where I saw him for the first time. I was young and wanted to be a cowboy. I took to him like flies to molasses. He looked so much the cowboy. From his old black Stetson, right down to the old looking spurs on his worn-out boots. He had a wrinkled face that had never been out of the sun very long, and gnarled hands scarred from barbed wire and all kinds of weather. He looked as old as the hills and didn't stand very straight. And he had the bluest eyes that seemed to know everything and more.

He didn't take to me and my sister right off. He would see us coming up the road to the ranch, and would stand off to one side, as we would jump out of the car to start our vacation. He would see us every day playing around the ranch, running here and there.

Then, one day, I was bound and determined to saddle a horse on my own so I could go riding. Well, he caught me in the horse barn. I had a horse in a stall tied to a railing. I must have been about five or six. I had managed to get a saddle blanket on the horse and was trying and trying to lift a saddle and climb up high enough on the railings to get the saddle on the horse. 'Course, the horse kept moving, then I would drop the saddle, say a few choice words I had learned from some of the guys on the ranch, and pick up the saddle to try again.

Well, I think he heard me first. Then he saw me. He just stood there and watched. I must have tried 40 times to get that saddle on that horse! I heard him clear his throat and give me that blue-eyed look. He rolled a smoke and asked if I needed a hand. He put the saddle on the horse and showed me how to cinch it up. Then how to bridle the horse.

He then took the horse out of the barn,and held it for me. I told him that I needed the horse by the wood fence so I could get on. He just looked at me, smiled, and said a real cowboy does not use a wood fence to get on a horse. And a real cowboy does not use them words I heard in the barn. So he showed me how to sorta climb up into the saddle. He said, "Now if you get off your horse in a field or out on the prairie where there are no fences you can still get back in the saddle. And them words you were saying? You only use them when your with your pards out on the range. They shouldn't be used on the ranch, 'cept maybe when you smash a finger or a horse steps on you."

Joe was good that way. He taught me a lot of things that still hold true to this day. I still use some of the outdoor things he taught me. 'Course, I don't have a horse drawn wagon. But, when you make camp for the night and have unhitched the team, you point the tongue of the wagon in the direction you are traveling for the next day. Or, never drink or get your water downstream from your cows or horse.

Joe was a really great guy. The spurs he had all those years of cowboying, he gave to my cousin Steve. My cousin Steve gave them to me.

Just think of all the places, how many horses and cows and cow camps, storms, sunsets, and how many pairs of boots have seen those spurs. I myself have worn them on the ranch on many a horse. And, how about all the places that old Joe had been to? And all that he has done in his lifetime!

Joe seemed like an old man when I first saw him all those years ago. And he out lived all of his family. I remember when he decided that it was time to call it quits. He had decided that he wanted to go back home to Texas 'cause his cowboy days were about over.

I remember him packing what little bit of belongings he had, from the little bunk house that he had called home for so many years. And we took him into town to catch the train. And me, not to be a teenager for a few years yet, still playing at being a cowboy. I was wearing an old black cowboy hat, dusty jeans, with worn out boots caked with cow patties, and a pair of spurs that had been worn by a real cowboy.

As he was saying goodbye to everyone, I started to cry. He looked at me, his blue eyes just as bright as the first time I ever saw him, and he kneeled down in front of me. He gave me a huge hug, leaned back, rolled a smoke, lit it, and his eyes got a little misty. He looked at me and said, "Cowboys never really die, we just find that big ranch up yonder, and keep on riding the range." And with that, he got up, stepped onto the train, waved, and was gone.

Joe passed I don't know how many years ago. I'm in my 50's now. He went home to Texas and found some relatives down El Paso way. From what I was told, he was out with a relative, and they were on horseback checking on some cows. They stopped at a hilltop, under some trees. They ate some lunch, and his relative said that he had to make a call to mother nature. So Joe just sat there, holding the reins to the horses. When his relative came back, Joe was gone. He had a bit of a smile on his face and the reins in his hand.

It was the first time he didn't have spurs on his boots.