Call of the Wild

One of Lamar's redeeming qualities is the herd of deer living on the town's edge. They bed near my parents' home and we often see them when we go for walks. During our last Christmas visit, Skip and I hunted the group in hopes of capturing a large buck in a sunset photo. Or Skip was trying to get his pregnant wife to workout.

He dressed me in snow camo and tugged me through the foot of snow until the deer sensed us. Then he'd have me crouch down and sneak up to them. Yes, me and my 7-month baby bump slowly approaching a buck with antlers larger than my frame. My family way did nothing to soften the deer to me, but I think they remember Pippa.

Today on a walk along the creek, Pippa and I came across the same herd of deer with their fawn. I had Pippa in her carrier. You'd think she'd revel in snuggling next to my chest, a gentle breeze on her face, chirping insects and birds singing, and my undivided attention. I gazed into her eyes the entire time, chatting away about her beauty. No, tonight this did nothing for her but interrupt her nap and she softly whined for the first mile of our journey.

A whine that called to the deer. As they crossed our path they watched us intently. Pippa's lower lip would tremble, her face drawn in a so sad clown frown and "meeeeehh." The deer would instantly stop, turn their heads and stare at us curiously. The closer we got and with Pippa's continued whimpers and whines the curious stare turned into a glare as if to say, "why do you torture that child."

I'm glad the bucks missed this chance meeting, no need to become a statistic of mother's gored by an angry buck trying to protect an infant. Much better to report that Pippa is her daddy's daughter and has perfected her stranded fawn imitation. Bow season opens in September?

Lamar Lovin'

The blizzard in Lamar has me craving snow. Nevermind that I wouldn't be snowboarding at seven months pregnant, I still wished to be in mountainous Park City instead of snowless Peoria.

Years ago I stressed over the perfect snowboard. I found one that I love, it's beautiful and brought many days of joy and bruises. But had I known about LaMar Snowboards things may have been different...

The Plaid Pants of 1999

As a teen my mom, and church leaders, encouraged me to accomplish some goals. I think the end goal was to make me a well-rounded self-sufficient gal, or at least more interesting. I'm not sure it did any of those things, but it prepared me to clothe my husband.

Over Christmas break Skip announced that he'd forgotten to pack pajama bottoms. I told him not to worry, between my dad, two brothers and a brother-in-law who lives in Lamar, Skip was sure to find something comfy to lounge in. He stared at me with big puppy dog eyes and a seriously doubtful look. So I started scrounging around the drawers in my room.

I went through a phase where I didn't want to have to pack to stay at my moms. Never mind my mom lived at least 12 hours away, I found pleasure in leaving clothes to wear, shampoo to use, hair brush, toothbrush, blow dryer, shoes, outdoor gear, etc. in my bedroom so my suitcase could be filled with twenty more outfits.

My hoarding abilities saved Christmas as I pulled out a pair of oversized green and red plaid pajama bottoms. Teenage Breanna had taken a regular pants pattern and made the legs wide and straight, the waist a few inches longer than necessary so it could be fashionably rolled and pockets appropriately placed (when the waist had been rolled). Teenage Breanna had no idea that anyone else would ever want to wear these ridiculous but splendid pants. Teenage Breanna had never met 40-year-old Skip who put them on with glee.

And then took them home to Peoria. So now the lounge pants I wore every Sunday in high school have become his go-to weekend wear. He won't even look at the cool pair I bought him from Banana Republic. All I can say is I used to be a visionary.

Pee or Pinch

In all my 18 years living in Lamar (bug capitall of Colorado) I never suffered anything more than a mosquito bite. Really quite a few of those. I had no idea how painfully annoying other bites were. Moving to Utah I put thoughts of unwanted bugs into neat file in my mind called Home. Utah's nickname, The Beehive State, didn't clue me in. Instead I dreamed of honey fountains, and it worked for nine years.

The first sting happened while I held a semiautomatic weapon in my hands. Trying to shoot a can from 50 yards sounded like a good time and was when I heard the bang of a hit. What I didn't know was that as I stared down my target I became the target for a nasty, multiple inch wasp. As it landed on my shirt collar Skip tried to warn me, "Don't move," he whispered. Thinking I had done something wrong with the gun I tensed up for the backfire.

Zing!

Fiery hot and through a thick polo collar the wasp's stinger barely got me. Ohhh but it itched and suddenly it felt like the temperature jumped 30 degrees. I declared war on insects. They heard my cry and planned their attack.

Five months later I returned to The Bug Capital. Skip was instantly aware of the giant roaches, grasshoppers, flies...and wasps. I was more interested in showing off my dad's green thumb and our aspen grove. Walking barefoot across our lawn I heard Skip caution, "you aren't wearing any shoes."

Double ZING!!!

I looked down in time to see another giant wasp crawling towards the top of my foot. He'd done his damage on the soft side near my arch and grinned evilly before flying off. I wish he'd been a bee and would've died. Weeks later the puncture is healing, the swelling is down and the itch has left, but my foot is dry and scaly.

Now in Peoria I fear a spider will drop on my head or snip at my toes while I sleep. But I was ready to see the beauty in the millions of lady bugs fluttering by. I imagined my bug-hunter nieces visiting with their nets and quick hands. I smiled to myself and reached for a black spotted creature. I watched it crawl up my arm. I drew in a sharp breath remembering that they like to pee on people. And then I felt the innocent ladybug bite me. I didn't even know they did that.

My white flag is raised and this is my song. The war is over.

In the Eyes of the Beholder

In the hallway four women breathed four sighs as they gazed through the glass doors of the elementary school. Prisoned inside three of them remarked on the lovely day, one rolled her eyes in disgust. A warmish day does not automatically translate into beauty.

Looking across the valley I could barely distinguish the Oquirrh Mountains, a few ridges peaked through the haze. Outside at recess my opinion refused to change. My definition of beautiful excludes dust particles, air pollutants, fumes and evaporated salt.

Outside on a beautiful day my eyes don’t itch, my skin isn’t clogged by air irritants and my snot isn’t black. On a beautiful day the warmth of the sun beats on me. Today the warmth of the thick air suffocated me. I felt like I’d wandered into a spider web and the poison from the spider’s bite would crush my lungs.

Those poor fools, I surmised, have never lived in open country. A twist in life once again makes me long for the comfort of home, Lamar. There on the open plains I grew up with clean air (if you don’t count the large percent of methane). The blue skies continued past the horizon, swallowing the sage brush.

Every day offered new shades of sky blue. The blue of winter days lured you unsuspectingly into the bitter cold. A cold that seemed to condense the color and deepen the color while stretching it far above you. The color so rich and a sky so thick you believed that bundled up you could wait outside for the sky to reach its saturation and fall on you.

The blue of spring released the frost bound color scattering it across the sky. Those days the blue looked faded, light, carefree. Or maybe it was waking after a slumber, not quite warm and slightly pale.

Summer heat brought dizzying shades starting with a light blue against a sunrise that burst into a shock of variations. Against a sharp roof you saw a deep penetrating blue that bleed into a lighter ring around the sun—I suppose I should mention I spent some time staring at the sun as a youth. That is why you are reading a blog that uses blue fifty times without a clear description of the hue—And when the storms brewed the sky swelled into royal blues and violets that gave way to a midnight blue contrasted with streaks of white burning light.

In autumn the cobalt blue skies dipped to greet you in the mornings, whisper to you at noon, hug you after school and kiss you good night at dusk.

The High Plains—blessed with four seasons producing 365 beautiful days.

Yermo

Long ago in Lamar a crime wave ran through the town, a theft of street signs. Done in the late night hours people would wake up without the reminder of where they lived. Cars turned down unidentified streets. Chaos and mayhem spread from east to west, north to south. Luckily we still gave directions according to landmarks like the stinky tower, Taco Johns, the old house on 3rd street, and the large dip. No one got lost but I think the town felt slightly violated, like an old man victim to practical jokes.

It was in the not-so-late night hours that I learned of the culprits. My friend Austin called to chat and told me of the plan to get the Austin Rd. street sign. It involved a complex walking route. Austin lived a few miles out of town to the northwest and Austin Rd., about a mile from my home, was located outside of town to the southeast.

Austin and Justin, who lived much closer, planned to stay at Austin’s house. They would sneak out in the middle of the night and walk the long distance to unbolt the sign and run back. I failed to see the beauty of it all because I was mentally calculating the time involved. When I voiced my opinion Austin answered in true teenage boy fashion.

“I’ll prove it to you,” he said. “We’ll leave something on your basketball court. Go look on Saturday morning.”

When Saturday arrived I stumbled out of bed more interested in breakfast than the breaking news of crime. Until my mom mentioned there was a note for me outside. On the cement of our half court someone had used rocks to spell out BRE and artistically placed the metal adjusting pole beside it. I laughed in amazement. It must have taken some time to pick up enough rocks to make letters that big and I wondered how long the journey took.

Austin called me later that day after he woke up. He wanted to know if I’d received the message. He also told me that they had thrown rocks at my window trying to wake me up, but got spooked because my bedroom was next to my parents.

He also confessed that they had spent the night at Justin’s house. I guess they’d tried to walk into town the previous night and realized it took too long.

Now I use street signs constantly, I have no memory the various houses to turn by. One significant sign was recently enhanced and I find myself plotting a late night theft.

Good Vibrations

I admit I’m a pansy. I’ve spent many years of my life terrified. The rooted-to-the-ground, eyes-squeezed, screaming-prayers-in-my-head terrified. For those of you without such experiences I pity you that your life should be so boring.

The feeling happens when I lose control, something inevitable when I combine my klutziness with speed. Knowing this I’ve spent many nights racking my brain for a way to conquer boarding on land, snow and sea. And when I went home in July for a family reunion I found the answer, the long sloping road I grew up on.

Memorial Drive runs a loop from the highway south of town to Main Street just north of the first stop sign, passing by the VFW, the cemetery, my childhood home and the hospital. I decided Trav and I could skip the first three and hook up near our new house and riding the mile down to the park. My memory holds moments of cruising down the smooth road on a bike, fast enough to tangle my hair. It would be great for Trav to learn and me to gain confidence.

We started a little shaky. Literally the road shook my board, but I’d expected this to be the shady part of the journey. We went down the little dip where the road crosses Willow Creek then kicked up the only hill we encountered. At this point a smarter person would have enjoyed riding down that hill and gone home. We proceeded kicking down Memorial. Occasionally I’d tell Trav life would improve once we made it to the hospital where the road went downhill.

I don’t know that he heard me or that he knows sign language. The rough road caused my board to go slightly backwards while I urged it forward. I felt the shudders course through my right foot, up my leg and trunk and settle in my lungs and throat. It grabbed the air that carried my words and jumbled it around so what came out through chattering teeth sounded demented and foreign. And the wild gestures I threw to signal him got lost in my struggle for balance.

Then as we approached the bridge and the stinky tower (appropriately nicknamed) entrance to the park I saw a familiar white dodge pickup turning toward us. My father drove straight at me. I noticed two craters on the side of the road and thought of the impending disaster. Perhaps a book and cup of cocoa should have been my day’s adventure. Instead my shaky legs stood on a longboard on a busy two-lane road without a shoulder and my dad, who hours before complained about his failing eyesight, headed straight at me. I envisioned a tumble in the ditch and as any sane scared person would do, I held my breath and closed my eyes.

When I opened them the road had cleared and I navigated into the park. Laughing happily I glanced around for Travis. Meanwhile my speed decreased and Trav passed me as my board hit a crack that jolted me backward onto the cobblestone asphalt.

Longboarding on the plains: they told me it couldn’t be done but I didn’t believe them.

They were right.

The Hunt

The pristine envelope he handed me contained a little more than the expected pay stub. I’ve finally been inducted to the company through an invitation for the upcoming holiday.

I struggle through my days at work, counting the seconds my mind drifts from caissons and piers. Then I remember I hate numbers and their rigid stance, a clear line of multiply and divide, black and white, right and wrong. The daydreams resume interrupted by the comfort of my high heels clacking along the muddy tiles as I walk to the fax machine—a ho-hum day at an office that reminds me of home.

Home with its dust and farm equipment, tractors driving down Memorial, kids wearing Wranglers and Lugs to school talking with that soft drawl and mixed vowels I slip into often. A lack in communication over the work schedule led me to pass on the twelve hour drive to eat bird in Lamar this year. Feeling a little homesick and less than thankful I wondered how to incorporate the Hall Turkey Bowl, rolls and pie into my Thursday. Who would wake me up at 4 a.m. as they stomped through the house in camouflage grabbing guns, ammo and-most importantly-victuals?

The answer lay in my thick envelope, an invitation for a company day-after-Thanksgiving pheasant hunt. As long as I brought a gun and bullets the birds would be paid for. A tradition I believe in, though have never participated in. It seemed like my holiday would be salvaged and I owed thanks to the wonderful co-workers who call me Goth, Emo and artsy-fartsy (those seconds drag tortuously).

Then I reread the invite. Paid birds. Hunting at 10 a.m. A two-hour drive. My Friday wasted. It’s one thing to tell the Boys I’ll go with them at 1 a.m. in Lamar, they don’t remember I agreed four hours later. And I like shooting things, probably even more if I ever hit anything. But this experience needs to be done on hallowed hunting ground at home, not a pheasant farm that releases birds.

I think I avoided the naughty list and if Santa pulls through then it’s guns in the A.M. this Christmas.