Thursday, July 20, 2017

Farewell

One of my dearest little friends (family, really) passed away last Sunday. If I told you how much I'm grieving Blueberry, how much I miss her, you'd probably call me batty--so I won't mention it. 


Blueberry's kids, Calico and Ariel, pictured when they were a few days old. Thankfully, the doelings were plenty old enough to wean before Blueberry died.

Took this on the way to town to the vet clinic. The look on her face said, "Are you sure you know how to drive this thing?"

Me and Cora, saying good-bye. 
Ariel, foreground, on her mama's new grave. Surely Ariel didn't know that Blueberry was buried five feet beneath her, but, well.... 



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"The thief's purpose is to steal, kill and destroy. My purpose is to give life in all its fullness." ~John 10:10 TLB

Friday, July 7, 2017

Farms: Great Places to Live, Unless You Like to Sleep at Night

Overheard in grocery checkout line:

Young mom with kids, buying eggs: “I’ve always wanted a farm. That’s my dream: to own a farm.”

Me, tempted to say: Lady, I bet you have no idea how hard you’d be working on that farm.

Checker: “Yeah, I grew up on a farm.”

Young mom: “And I’d love to have chickens. It would be so wonderful to wake up every day by the crowing of the roosters.”

Me, tempted to say: Ha! After a night of sleep interrupted by the caterwauling fox family, dogs chasing the fox family, and spouse calling the name of the cat who hopefully hasn’t become the midnight snack of the fox family, you’ll be ready to feed those ol’ early birds to the fox family. And don't get me started on cows and calves.

Me, carrying groceries to the truck: I definitely need to work on my attitude.  



A juvenile offender. 

Afternoon nappers, making up for lost nighttime REM.


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"Every thought is a seed. If you plant crab apples, don't plan on harvesting Golden Delicious." ~Bill Meyer



Tuesday, July 4, 2017

Wyoming, USA

Most Americans don’t live here. Wyoming’s population barely squeaks over 587,000—and that’s only if grizzlies, grey wolves, and good cowdogs are counted in the census.

Visitors come in the summer months, though, when our notorious weather generally behaves itself. Millions of camping, hiking, marshmallow-roasting, trout-fishing, rock-climbing, trail-riding, dude-ranching, cabin-renting, rodeo-cheering, jitterbugging, wildlife-watching, selfie-taking, souvenir-buying, wildflower-picking, mountain-admiring, fossil-hunting, history-buffing sojourners join our ranks.


The influx wildly boosts the local economy, of course. Grouchy locals get something fresh to grump about—traffic—since the usual topics, weather, oil prices, and politics, have grown stale. Most Wyomingites, though, are proud and happy to share our delightful state with the rest of the world—for a little while. 










I took these photos yesterday as we hiked near Wagon Box Creek in the Big Horn Mountains.


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"The valleys are where I learn how small I am, the mountaintops where I see how great [God] is." ~Roy Rogers